Heresy
by justTrip'n
Summary: In the E-Squared universe, an encounter with the ultrareligious Triannons leads to disaster. After Trip’s death, T’Pol tries to move on with her life. Just as she is making some progress, she discovers that Trip may still be alive in a parallel universe.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: PG-13

**Disclaimer:** No infringement intended. Writing for myself and other fans. I respect the Star Trek writers who gave us these compelling characters! I thank without implicating my beta, Distracted.

**Genre:** Drama, Romance, Angst, AU, little humor. (You decide)

**Summary:** In the E-Squared universe, an encounter with the ultrareligious Triannons leads to disaster. After Trip's death, T'Pol tries to move on with her life. Just as she is making some progress, she discovers that Trip may still be alive in a parallel universe. Meanwhile Lorian negotiates the transition to young adulthood, while T'Pol learns the joys of parenting a growing teen.

In chapter 1, we say goodbye to Trip. :(

**Warnings:** Major character death. Although I am a Trip and T'Pol shipper (and I consider this a Trip and T'Pol story), this story includes a T'Pol/Reed pairing.

**Notes:** This story is consistent with Forwards or Backwards, a mystery/drama which explains how Trip and T'Pol get together in MY E-Squared universe. You do not have to read that story to follow this one. (But please do, anyway! :)

If you don't first read "Forwards or Backwards" it will help to know that: Trip once suffered depression; there are certain limitations on Human/Vulcan sex; Phlox is married to both Amanda and Liz Cutler; and many military formalities have gone by the wayside—the captain is usually addressed as "Jon" by the other adults. OK, that's it!

* * *

Chapter 1

_Prelude:_

Lorian and his twin were both "mixed," a combination of two species. Lorian was the son of Charles Tucker III and T'Pol. Destiny was the daughter of Dr. Phlox and Amanda Cole. Their conception had been bioengineered by the doctor and, to avoid delays, the fetuses had grown to babyhood in the same biocylinder. Lorian had floated toward the top of the cylinder and Destiny at the bottom. For a time Lorian's superior position in the tank allowed him to kick his poor twin in the head and stomach. Luckily Lorian turned and floated upside down through the last month of their gestation.

Lorian and Destiny had been born on the same day. As a toddler, Lorian was blond, skinny, and wiry. Destiny was rounder, brown haired, and her features were accented by subtle ridges. At first the label of "twins" had been a joke, but somewhere along the line it had became a reality. Lorian and Destiny became as close as twins, and their parents were drawn together as well.

_

* * *

_

_Years later:_

_Enterprise_ had not been built for a 120 year mission. If it had, the kids might have gotten a full basketball court. As it was, the crew had to push the exercise equipment to the sides of the gym and roll up the mats just to have room to play half-court basketball.

Today was the Big Game, the 3 v 3 under-15 basketball championship. The Blue team was facing the Green team. The anxious parents sat on the spectator's bench, cheering wildly. The Red players, already resigned to their losing status, were across the gym from their parents on the players' benches, shouting directions to their friends on Blue and Green.

With a tie score and fifteen seconds to go, Trip watched his son, a Green point guard, walk the ball towards the 3-point line. Lorian was cool and composed. With a sideways glance and a twitch of his left hand, he sent Paris Mayweather tearing off to the left, then threw the ball to empty space at the other end of the court. Paris materialized under the basket, intercepted the ball, dribbled once, and laid it in. It dropped through the net. Destiny, of the Blue team, looked on in despair. She was supposed to have been guarding Paris. Destiny grabbed the ball and threw it back to Glenn, her Blue teammate. Lorian was on Glenn instantly, terrorizing him, swiping the ball loose, but Glenn dove to the floor, scrambled, retrieved the ball and tossed it up to his teammate Carlos, standing under the basket. Carlos took a shot.

The ball rolled lazily around the rim, once, twice, _three_ times, dipped inside the rim . . . then out and onto the floor. The buzzer went off. End of game.

"Hey, spatial anomaly!" A Blue parent protested.

They all laughed, Trip turned to Travis, who was flashing that wide smile. Trip flashed one back and they clasped hands, performing one of those secret, guy-handshakes whose rules have evolved through the ages.

"Hey, your son played a great game," Travis congratulated.

"Paris was awesome," Trip returned.

Trip looked around the gym. Destiny was in tears, deep in a discussion with her mother, Amanda. No surprise there. His "niece" could be a little babyish.

Basking in the euphoria, Trip sat back on the bench and contacted T'Pol through the bond. Sensing Trip's state of mind, she instantly knew the outcome of the game.

*Hey, you shoulda seen it. It was _so_ close.*

*You are proud of Lorian.*

*He's the shortest kid on either team, but he's so sure of himself. Looked like a MACO lead'n an assault force.*

* * *

T'Pol basked in Trip's euphoria and pondered the craziness of it all . . . the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, with nothing material at stake. She preferred "watching" these games from the Bridge, where it didn't smell like sweat and the adults held their emotions in check. Still.

*I am pleased we won,* she found herself saying to her husband.

It was irrational. Maybe she'd address the issue at her next meditation. Yet, she lingered in the shared exhilaration a moment longer before breaking the spell. *When you're finished there, meet me on the bridge. And bring Travis. We've arrived at the sphere.*

* * *

The commotion in the gym was settling down. Lorian walked over to where Trip was sitting. Paris trailed Lorian and caught up to him.

"You guys were great," Trip told them both. "That last Green play . . .!" He waved a hand, at a loss for words.

"Thanks," Paris answered and turned to Lorian. "We're champions! Will I see you at the Sports Banquet tonight?" The tall, athletic beauty gazed down at Trip's scrawny son with a look of undisguised adoration.

"I'm going so . . . _probably_," Lorian answered, as if the girl had just asked a really dumb question.

Could it be that his son was oblivious to the opportunity presented? Paris had suddenly blossomed into a young woman. Though it shouldn't matter, Trip was a tiny bit concerned about his kid's sexual orientation . . . like whether he would ever have one. T'Pol had warned Trip that their child might turn out to be Vulcan in this respect.

As soon as the girl was out of earshot, Trip pulled Lorian aside. "I think she likes you. If you like her, you shouldn't brush her off. When I was your age, I liked this girl . . ."

Lorian cut him off, "You told me like ten times. You wimped out and didn't ask her to dance . . ."

Trip stopped, surprised by the comment.

"Get over it already," Lorian added.

Before Trip could formulate an appropriate response, the boy cracked a shy smile, heading off a confrontation. Trip grabbed him by the head and wrestled him into a hug, before shoving him off.

"O.K., Champ," The phrase conveyed both praise and a warning. "I've got to meet your mother on the Bridge. I'll tell her how well you played."

"Thanks, Dad," Lorian said.

"I hope I can make it to the spaghetti banquet tonight. Now, go talk to Destiny. See if you can cheer her up. Her team got second place, after all. She'll still get a trophy."

"Yeah. Besides, she really likes spaghetti." Spaghetti was special on _Enterprise_. The ingredients were stored in a cargo bay in sealed containers. 17 years into their accidentally extended mission, the fruits and pies from Earth were long gone. Aside from some vegetables from hydroponics, spaghetti was the only Earth food they had left.

Trip hurried off. It was a great last game.

* * *

"You both must think we've lost our minds," Hoshi commented to T'Pol and Malcolm, referring to the general hysteria that had overtaken the basketball parents. Malcolm, a confirmed bachelor, tilted his head noncommittally. He wasn't going to be the one to say it, but he could probably count on T'Pol.

"In fact, I believe the enthusiasm to be beneficial to mental health," T'Pol responded, "Research has shown that identification with a team can foster community. Physical competition, even when experienced vicariously, can improve mood in humans by raising levels of adrenaline . . ."

Travis and Trip strode onto the bridge. "Green beats Blue 36 to 34!" Travis announced triumphantly.

Trip raised a hand, accepting the imaginary applause.

"You see." T'Pol concluded.

"How'd your team do?" Travis asked Hoshi.

"I'm afraid U-13 Yellow crushed U-13 Purple. It was rather embarrassing." Hoshi admitted.

Archer stepped onto the bridge. "Are we there yet?" He asked.

As they were hanging in space, staring at a stationary star field, T'Pol felt it unnecessary to answer that particular question. Instead she launched into her briefing. "This sphere appears to have the same configuration as the others, but its function may be different. From our analysis of graviton emissions across the network of spheres, we have concluded that this particular sphere may regulate the others."

Jon gave the orders. "Travis and Trip, I want you to go down and check it out. Take _Pod One_ and scan the surface. We need to find a way to disable this system."

"A hundred years from now," Travis added, ironically.

"It'll be ninety-nine if we keep dragging our feet," Archer corrected. "Move along. Time's a-wasting." He seemed in a good mood.

Travis and Trip got up to leave.

"Go Green!" Hoshi teased and they smiled back.

* * *

T'Pol was waiting for her "Green team" to return from the sphere. No communications were possible until they broke through the cloaking barrier. It was always an anxious wait, staring at the stars, waiting for movement. Finally, a sparkle, and the pod appeared against the dark background.

"Tucker to _Enterprise_. _We_ got the scans. Visually, it looks the same as the others. Can't wait to run it through the programs."

"T'Pol to _Shuttlepod One_. There is an object behind you, 160 degrees starboard. It appears to be orbiting the sphere, just outside the cloaking barrier. Can you get a reading?"

"Mayweather to _Enterprise_. The object is small, less than a meter in diameter. It has broken orbit. It seems to be FOLLOWING us! . . . _Enterprise_ can you get a lock?"

Malcolm fiddled with his controls. "It's too small and moving fast. . . Evasive maneuvers!"

* * *

T'Pol watched as the objected honed in on the pod. The vehicle shot out towards open space, but had not gotten far when the object collided with it. For a moment nothing else happened. The impact itself caused no damage . . . the impactor seemed to be low-mass . . . but it attached itself to the pod and began leaking some sort of exhaust. In effect, the pod suddenly had an extra impulse jet, shooting out at a random angle. The pod tumbled helplessly end over end.

A trained pilot could still keep his head, and his lunch, under these circumstances. Exercise equipment in the gym allowed _Enterprise's_ pilots to simulate such an event. Hopefully Travis and Trip were both in practice. Worse case scenario: the pod could tumble back through the cloaking barrier and crash onto the sphere. The bridge crew collectively held their breath. There was no sense in contacting the pod at this point. It would be impossible for the pilot to focus with an additional distraction.

"Malcolm! Stand ready to deploy the tractor cable if they fall towards the cloaking barrier," Archer ordered.

Five minutes later the tumbling slowed as Travis madly worked the pod's own impulse jets. Finally the vessel was under control. No intervention has been required from the bridge.

"_Enterprise_ to _Pod One_. How're you doing over there?" Archer asked.

"That was no fun, but yeah, we're fine," Trip answered.

"Head back. T'Pol will meet you in the shuttlebay. Archer out."

* * *

When T'Pol caught up to Trip and Travis, they had already exited the vehicle and Trip was poking at the object attached to the side of the pod. It was leaking some kind of oil. He rubbed his fingers and sniffed.

"Odd. We're guessing the spheres are powered by orbiting transdimensional black holes, but this satellite seems to be fueled by a hydrocarbon."

T'Pol pointed out the obvious, for all the good it ever did: "It would make sense to scan an unknown object before putting your fingers on it."

Travis looked over Trip's shoulder. "Seems awfully low-tech. I was expecting something a little more mysterious from the Sphere Builders."

Now T'Pol began the scan herself. "I am detecting a biological organism in this fluid." She looked up abruptly. "Trip! Wipe your hands and get to Decon." Her husband grabbed a towel.

"Shit! You're right," he said, scrubbing at his fingers. His skin was already reacting to something in the fluid. He dropped the towel and, being careful not to touch his hands to his face, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "T'Pol, meet me outside of Decon with some fresh clothes."

* * *

"I'm afraid this bioorganism has moved into your subdural layer. There is nothing more we can do for you in Decon," Phlox told Trip, a little too matter-of-factly. "Please come out and wait on the biobed while I run some tests. If the rash keeps spreading, we may have to put you in stasis."

If there were anything more encouraging to say, presumably the doctor would have said it.

T'Pol met Trip at the door of the Decon chamber and presented him with the clean clothes. Ominously, she didn't even bother to scold him. Instead she searched his face with terrified, watery eyes, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't. It reminded him of the early years in the Expanse, before she'd learned to mask the damage from her substance abuse.

"So what'd you find out?" he asked her anxiously.

"The mine that attached itself to your pod has Triannon markings. You will recall that the Triannons we met in 2156 were religious fanatics . . . terrorists . . . who worship and protect the spheres. We can assume they planted this mechanical/biological mine to punish those who venture close to the spheres. We found a Triannon ship nearby and are about to make contact. We need to persuade the Triannons to give us the antidote to the biotoxin."

"No! Those people are fricking lunatics. Don't get _them_ involved. I'd rather take my chances with Phlox."

"The decision's been made. We have no choice. You will be diplomatic in the coming negotiations." Now she was giving him orders.

They stood inches away from each other. The proximity, with the emotional confrontation, triggered the switch to telepathic communication. His wife dropped into a brief trance-like state, imposing calm on them both. *You're important to me. Be logical and focus. We can do this.* It was a feeling more than words. Then she turned and hurried out the door.

Trip sighed heavily. Then he checked out the care package. T'Pol had brought his tattered old uniform, the only one of his left from Earth. The crew had gradually replaced their uniforms with foreign clothing from the Expanse. Trip hated the Expanse, so he loved this uniform.

In the old days he'd have waited for the doctor's verdict wearing only his undies, but the pair he'd put on today were as tattered as the uniform. Sickbay could be a very public place, especially during a crisis, so he put on the uniform for decency. He left the top half unzipped, tying the arms of the uniform around his waist as a belt so Phlox would be able to examine the rash crawling slowly from his hand towards his elbow.

Charles "Trip" Tucker III was fifty years old, and already he'd been in this spot half-a-dozen times . . . holed up in sickbay, awaiting word from Phlox on a potentially life-threatening condition. Each previous instance, he'd dodged the particle beam, so to speak. _This time will be no different_, he told himself. He looked down his right arm at the strange, spreading burn. On his bicep was a tattoo T'Pol had applied herself . . . a bold declaration of love penned in an archaic Vulcan script. Things she'd never say out loud. It was permanent. But if the rash kept progressing . . .

* * *

"Good news!" Jon declared with a strained smile, ushering a dignified-looking Triannan into sickbay.

_Good news from a Triannon?_ Trip sincerely doubted it. The last group they'd met had held the ship hostage, killed a crew member, erased crucial data files, and executed the captain . . . at least they thought they had. Trip took a breath and smiled back. _Here we go again. One more time with the play acting._

"So what's the good news?" Trip asked gamely.

"You have contracted a deadly illness by venturing near the Sphere," the Triannon began, with a sympathetic look which Trip guessed to be just as fake as Jon's smile. "Though we don't have the antidote, we know how to get it. You must throw yourself on the mercy of the Sphere Makers and ask their forgiveness."

Trip's expression twisted. "I'm die'n and _maybe_ you can save me?" He shouted, "That sounds like really bad news to me!"

Jon shot his friend a look, begging him to play along. Trip rolled his eyes at the ceiling and back to Jon. _Do I have to?_

"Aren't you grateful, Trip?" Jon prompted. "We accidentally stumbled onto Sacred Ground, while admiring the Sphere. The Triannons could have been angry about that. Instead, they are willing to help."

"Captain," The Triannon lectured, "You realize that your ship may not follow us to the Holy Realm. We will sacrifice your crewman before revealing the identity of the Healer."

"Phlox? Where's Phlox?" Trip whined, giving up hope on a Triannon solution. "Can't you do something?"

Phlox appeared from around the corner. He shook his head, then directed everyone's attention to the bioscan readings on the screen above their heads. "I've never seen anything like this. I believe this pathogen _is_ a product of the Sphere Builders. It seems to be transdimensional. Nothing I do to it in this dimension affects it. Trip, if this gentlemen thinks he has a cure, I suggest you try it."

"But, Phlox, you work miracles. You bioengineered my kid . . . . "

* * *

Outside the sickbay door another Triannon entertained a growing crowd of curious children. Visitors were rare. It was even rarer that a visitor came who would chat with the children. This one wasn't only chatting. He was handing out toys.

"Hey, great graphics," Asatoshi Sato exclaimed, exploring his new gamepadd.

"Thanks," the friendly Triannon answered. "Look, you get points for each sphere you visit. When the Chosen Realm . . . the Expanse . . . turns into a paradise, you get points for every believer caught inside."

"Cool!" Asatoshi enthused. "Hey, Lorian. Do you think we could reprogram these to make the spheres blow up?"

Lorian shot his younger friend a warning glance, but pushed a few buttons on the gamepadd, scrolling through the impressive scenery. "Shouldn't be that hard. We'll talk about it later."

"Why would you want to blow up the spheres?" the Triannon asked, concerned.

"Yeah," Destiny chimed in, "Why's it always about have to be about explosions? The game's good the way it is."

"If you like, I could fix YOUR game to have pretty pink Denobulan ponies," Lorian ripped back.

"Hey, that was fourth grade!" She protested.

The Triannon seemed to relax.

Then nine-year old Stan Rostov had to ruin it for them all: "Our ship's in the Expanse to save people too, but we need to blow up the spheres to do it."

A dark expression came over the Triannon's face. He looked through the crowd for his one ally. She seemed unhappy.

"What's the matter?" the Triannon asked Destiny.

"The Blue team lost the Championship," a little tattletale offered. "She thinks it's because of a spatial anomaly. "

"The ball didn't go it. It should have gone in," Destiny complained.

"There are multiple physical realities, but only one spiritual reality," the Triannon assured her in a soothing tone. "Maybe you won your game in an alternative timeline. In any case, you are lucky to have experienced an anomaly. We seek them out. Our ship is unshielded for that very reason. Who would like to see our ship?"

"Me, me! I would," Destiny answered eagerly.

* * *

The doors to sickbay flew open as Travis entered to check on his copilot. He looked back over his shoulder into the hallway and signaled Trip with a frown. Trip had already tuned out the fruitless discussion between Jon and the Triannon.

"Hey, Cap'n?" Trip interrupted "Should that guy really be talk'n with our kids?"

"Excuse me," Jon said to his guest as he stepped out the door. But the alien followed Jon into the hallway, trailed by Trip and Travis.

"Lorian, what are you doing with that thing?" Trip hollered,."You know not to take gifts from strangers!"

Lorian looked up surprised. In fact, they had never covered that rule.

Jon was still desperately working the diplomacy angle. "Children, thank the man for your games and run along to the banquet. Some of us will be late." He turned to the second Triannon in the hall. "I'm sorry they were bothering you."

"It's no bother at all," the first Triannon exclaimed. "Our mission is to bring the Good News of the Makers to people of all ages and species." He gave the captain a perfunctory smile before pulling his superior aside. "Prenom, may I have a word with you?" The two Triannons exchanged some furtive whispers. Negotiations with the humans had just taken a turn for the worse.

"Captain, I believe we have been misled as to the nature of this 'accident'," the higher-ranking Triannon began. "Your people are not ignorant of the truth. You have REJECTED the truth. The offer of help is rescinded. Your crewman WILL die. Dorlok, ready the shuttle. We're heading back."

His flunky hurried down the hall, while Jon tried to delay the inevitable by arguing with the Prenom.

Lorian was still lingering, looking worried. "Dad, are you coming?" he asked.

"Nah, I can't make it," Trip answered miserably. "You go on."

Lorian took a step back towards him, noticing the rash.

"No! Don't touch," Trip warned, lifting his right hand up out of reach. "Now go on. Get outta here!"

"Yes sir," Lorian mumbled, finally complying. As soon as Lorian turned his back, Trip wiped an eye with the T-shirt sleeve on his shoulder, careful not to use his hand.

Then the leader of the two Triannons stalked off.

"Jon," Trip said, watching his son disappear around the corner, "I've changed my mind. I want to go."

The friends shared a look, solidifying the decision.

"O.K. then," Jon confirmed, "I'll tell T'Pol. See if she can hold them."

Jon ran back into sickbay and pushed the com button. Trip and Travis followed.

"Captain," T'Pol informed them from the bridge, "the Triannon shuttle is on its way back and the ship is powering up for warp." In the background, the Prenom's rant was resounding through the bridge:

"Woe to those who forsake the truth and conspire to delay the coming Paradise. Throw yourselves on the mercy of the Maker or you will all die together."

"Cap'n," Trip said, "This religion sounds familiar. I'm guess'n it's the final altar call. There's no time. Can you _beam_ me over?"

"Good idea." Jon answered, "Trip, Travis, you two go! I'm heading to the bridge."

* * *

T'Pol addressed the Triannons from the bridge. "Commander Tucker now considers that his actions may have been in error. He wishes further instruction in your religion."

The rant from the other ship abruptly subsided.

* * *

Somewhere in the network of spheres, power was dropping below the acceptable threshold. A mysterious negative feedback loop gradually increased the output of Sphere 42 by .0001 percent, sending ripples and eddies through the graviton field. Anomalies only a few meters in diameter bubbled up around the sphere and burst within seconds.

* * *

Trip jumped into the transporter alcove. "Explain all this to Lorian," he shouted, barely catching his breath.

"I will," Travis answered, pushing the lever forward

"Tell T'Pol . . . ." But Trip had turned to sparkly spinning sand and was gone.

* * *

"Transport in progress," T'Pol announced. On the viewscreen, the Triannon ship hung in space. An invisible bubble drifted across the viewscreen, revealing itself only as a distortion in the scene. Suddenly the bubble lit up, momentarily outlined against the Triannon ship. T'Pol heard her crewmates gasp and, then, Trip's voice through the bond.

*I'm fine. Don't worry.*

She felt his relief. She indulged in it. She thanked Surak for the logic that had finally convinced Trip to accept this course of action. On the bridge, everyone was totally silent. Perhaps they were meditating as well, or thanking gods they no longer believed in . . . a human idiosyncrasy she now considered harmless.

*Jeeze, that was close,* Trip sent back. She almost smiled. A second later, the Triannon ship had jumped to warp. The couples' connection was severed.

She looked around trying to make sense of the stricken faces. It reminded her of the time when they all thought they'd ignited a planet's atmosphere, killing thousands. Or when Archer had told them about Florida, or . . ."

"What?" She demanded, getting anxious.

"I'm sorry," Hoshi stammered, angry and defensive. "An anomaly. It just appeared out of nowhere. It scattered the transporter beam."

"But I heard him. He said he was safe."

She looked back and forth from Malcolm to Jon. Both offered only wordless apologies.

"I can prove he's there! Jump to warp," She ordered, "Follow that ship!"

Malcolm glanced up at Jon who shook his head "no."

Malcolm looked up and held her gaze. "If we move, we disturb the . . . debris field," He was choosing his words carefully. "There is still some . . . dust."

"I don't want dust!" She shot back. "I want my husband!"

* * *

Lorian was at the banquet, sitting with Asatoshi, Carlos, Glenn, and Evan. There were hardly any parents there. His twin was nowhere to be seen. Could she still be off moping? He had his First Place trophy sitting on the table in front of him, but everything was all wrong. Malcolm appeared at the back of the room and waved him over. "When you're done here, I'm supposed to bring you back home. Your mother needs to talk to you."

The Tuckers' quarters were overflowing with people. Aunt Amanda was in the hallway crying. Uncle Phlox was there, not in sickbay. As Lorian and Malcolm arrived they both glanced at the boy with masked faces.

Inside, people were talking in low voices. His mom was sitting at the back of the room with Captain Archer. Their heads were bowed together in an urgent discussion. She was hugging herself and rocking. "No," she was saying, "it was so clear."

She looked up with a tear-stained face, saw Lorian, and seemed to pull herself together. His parents almost never cried. T'Pol held out her hand. Preparing himself for the worst, he took it. "You father died today in a transporter accident," she said. Lorian sat down by his mother, stunned, and she held him.

"But I just saw him," he objected.

"I know," his mom agreed, "But, it doesn't matter. He's gone."

* * *

Behind them Amanda was talking to Malcolm. "Destiny should be here."

"I didn't see her at the banquet."

"I'm going to look for her."

"Let me contact security for you. It'll be faster."

* * *

Trip's rash was gone. He had seen an amazing facility, where he had been taken to be healed . . . a totally different kind of sphere. He'd tried to memorize the details. It might be the missing puzzle piece crucial for their mission. He'd been transferred to a new ship, and no one seemed concerned about getting him back to _Enterprise_. Seems they expected him to spend some time in religious studies in return for receiving medical treatment.

Trip appealed to Triannon welcoming committee. "I appreciate you sav'n my life 'n all, but now I'd like to go home."

"We have saved your physical life. Now we want to save you spiritually. When you entered the Chosen Realm you were wrapped in the arms of the Makers."

"No offense, but I'd rather be wrapped in my family's arms, not some thermobaric cloud layer."

"Thermobaric cloud layer!" The lead Triannon shook his head, amused. "You take a miracle, give it a scientific name, and feel you have tamed it. You admit you haven't been able explain this phenomenon. You will discover that the ways of the Makers are _beyond_ our understanding."

"It may be beyond _our_ understanding, but my wife almost has this thing figured out. _Her_ religion is based on logic." Trip was becoming more animated. "How'd you people even get into space? I'd love to talk with your engineers."

"This may be difficult to accept, but we are keeping you on this ship." Another of them answered with a tone of finality. "We have your best interests at heart. We want you and Destiny to be among those who survive when the Makers return."

"What are you talking about? Destiny? You took a little girl? You sonofa . . ."

He stopped as a girl entered the room.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Trip," she pleaded for understanding. "I thought it was just a visit."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Lorian, we need your help. Could you put that away?" Jon asked gently. All the senior officers were standing around a table of monitors. Immediately following Trip's fatal accident, they faced a second crisis. Destiny was missing, abducted by the Triannons. It was two hundred hours, and everyone was emotionally and physically exhausted. Fourteen-year-old Lorian appeared to be substituting for his absent father—and doing a poor job of it. Lorian, who'd been pushing buttons on his gamepadd, now dropped the toy to his side. Jon was puzzled. _He's playing at a time like this?_ He gave T'Pol a questioning look.

"He thinks it might provide some clues," T'Pol explained, her voice low and flat.

"So you think your twin went willingly?" Jon asked the boy.

Lorian looked up at the captain with reddened eyes and a serious, yet open expression. "Yes. The Triannon asked if anyone wanted to see his ship, and Destiny was the only one who said yes."

_He looks like a 3-day old Sim,_ the captain reflected, and shook his head to clear the distracting thought.

Malcolm gave a sigh of exasperation. "Sir, we should have had an armed guard on any visitors roaming the ship."

"That would seem a little excessive," Jon told him.

"Until yesterday," Malcolm declared.

"Look," Jon said, "we scanned them for weapons and bioexplosives. They were clean. She's fourteen. We didn't expect her to just leave with a stranger. We'll review our protocol, but for now, let's focus on getting the girl back."

"We scanned the area," Travis reported, pointing at map, "and these are the only ships within 10 light years." His pitch slid higher. "The Triannon ship seems to have just disappeared into thin air."

"Jon," T'Pol said slowly. "I'm not sure we should try to follow the ship. They warned us . . . ." She glanced towards Lorian and let the sentence hang.

Lorian looked from his mother to the captain. "Besides, they may have moved Destiny to a different ship," the boy contributed.

"Why do you say that?" Jon asked, surprised.

"On the game, when your ship collects new believers you take them to a bigger ship for processing."

"Well if their interest is evangelism, they probably won't harm her," Travis said, grasping at this crumb of hope. "Triannon principles may be screwy, but they obviously have some. Lorian, does that game have anything about the return of prisoners?"

Lorian shook his head. "Here, they aren't like prisoners," he said, waving at the toy. "On the game, people just join up and wait for Paradise."

Jon gave the orders: "Malcolm, Hoshi, call around to our contacts in the Expanse. Find out if this situation has a precedent and, if so, how we can negotiate for the girl's release."

"Right," Malcolm answered. "T'Pol, let us know if Lorian remembers anything else."

"I'll review this game," T'Pol answered, staring absently through him. "It may provide some . . . insight."

"If you feel up to it," Malcolm returned. "We can certainly assign the job to someone else."

T'Pol didn't answer, but looked around, evading their eyes. "I've got to update Phlox and Amanda," she said at last.

"No, I'll do that," Jon offered. "You and Lorian get some rest."

"There's nothing more any of you can do here," Hoshi confirmed. "So go on. We'll let you all know immediately if we find anything."

* * *

Malcolm sat through Trip's memorial service, listening to the parade of testimonials, amazed that his friend of twenty years was gone. He could only vaguely recall the early days, when Trip would ignore him entirely, except to give an order . . . when Malcolm had frowned on the man's cocky informality, even as he wished to be included in the fun. Later, he and Trip had been abandoned in a shuttlepod, and had bickered, drank, faced death, and saved each other's lives. Over the following years, the two officers had shared enough misadventures that no defection from the friendship was possible. If one had started telling stories on the other, there would have been mutually assured destruction.

One day, several years into their temporal detour, Trip had offered up particularly sensitive intelligence. Using a variety of non-European euphemisms, Trip had confessed that there were certain limitations on Vulcan/Human sex. _What would possess a man to VOLUNTEER such information?_ The reticent Brit had been astonished. . . and merciless in his teasing.

"Well it sure beats, an Orion 'companion'," Trip had responded.

"How would you know?" Malcolm had asked. "You can't even THINK about an Orion female without T'Pol ordering you to desist."

"I think about whatever I want to think about," Trip had said, looking worried.

Now, Malcolm cracked a smile through the gloom, remembering that face.

Malcolm had lost a buddy, a confidant, a best friend.

Jon was entertaining them with that scuba diving story. Those two went WAY back. Malcolm was only now learning how many other people had considered Trip to be their best friend. _Some people are just like that,_ he considered, listening to the eulogies and feeling lonelier by the minute.

_Who will spar with me every Tuesday? Who will wax poetic about engineering efficiency? Who will argue the merits of comic books over classic literature?_ The Tucker quarters, decorated with candles, mediation pillows, and not much else, was a place where Malcolm had spent many comfortable hours. Now, the only sociable member of that family was missing. He wondered if he was still welcome to drop by. He tried to imagine making conversation with the stern Vulcan without Trip's animated intercession.

He scolded himself for the self-pity. He should be feeling sorry for Trip. _And T'Pol. And Lorian. And Destiny, Phlox, and Amanda._

He'd honor Trip's memory by being stoic, and helpful to the survivors. It was all he could do.

* * *

T'Pol was sitting by herself at lunch in the mess hall. Almost a week after the funeral she was still in a daze. In the immediate aftermath of the incident she had comforted herself with the thought that her husband went painlessly; that he thought he would soon return to _Enterprise_; that he was hopeful to the end. Now it hit her that he wasn't coming back. She felt weepy and lethargic. She felt ashamed. Everyone would know she had been crying.

But she couldn't sit in her room forever. That wasn't logical. If she returned to a normal routine, perhaps she would begin to feel normal.

She was startled by a male voice. "May I?" It was Malcolm.

"Were you ordered to sit here?" she asked.

"No, of course not." He hesitated a moment before pulling up a chair.

"The crew seems afraid of me now," she explained, "but someone always sits with me at meals."

"I'm sure they just want to help, but aren't sure what to do or say," he offered. She made no reply, so he picked up his knife and sawed at his meat.

T'Pol's mind wandered from one unhappy thought to the next. "Trip's death is a setback for the mission," she found herself saying.

"Undoubtedly."

"Trip and I used to work well together," she continued. "The new chief engineer and I never work on projects together. We have always had different shifts."

"Rostov is quite good. When you're feeling better, you two should talk. I know he'd be open to that."

It was a helpful suggestion. She let out a shaky breath. She admired Malcolm's emotional control. It was better than any other person's on the ship, hers included. "I'm afraid I am not being a very good Vulcan," she confessed to him.

"No one is judging you," he assured her, "There's no wrong way to grieve." He paused before asking, "How's Lorian holding up?"

"I don't know. He didn't come home last night . . . or the previous night."

"Didn't come home?" Malcolm seemed alarmed. "He's fourteen! How can he not come home? Did you call security?

"No," she stated.

"Look, there's no wrong way to grieve, but there's a wrong way to parent. Trust me on this one."

T'Pol was surprised at his directness. "I wasn't worried," she responded "I believe he's sleeping in the access tubes. What problem do you see with this?"

"Well there's the principle of the thing. He shouldn't just be running wild. And safety. You don't know his state of mind. Trip had depression. Lorian could be predisposed to mood disorders. Besides . . . you should just look for him. He might think no one cares."

"When Lorian was young, he liked the sound of the warp engine. It put him to sleep. I believe he's moved somewhere closer to Engineering."

"Well at least you know where to look. I commend you on that. Look, for now, if he wants to sleep in the access tubes, let's assign him a low-traffic access tube. Then at least we'll know where he is."

"Thank you, I didn't think of that."

"I was also raised on a ship—in the Royal Navy. When I would run off, my parents wouldn't know or care where I went," he said, with a snort of disgust. "So, I may be overly sensitive on this issue."

"No, I appreciate your . . . insight. I have been somewhat distracted," she returned. "You were poorly supervised in your youth?"

"Oh, I was quite well supervised. My dad was always sure to teach me a lesson when I returned."

T'Pol didn't like the sound of that. "Vulcans disapprove of violent forms of discipline."

"Doesn't matter . . . anymore." He shrugged it off. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Hmm?"

She disagreed, but kept it to herself. "Vulcans value their children," she said instead, "Perhaps because we reproduce so infrequently."

Malcolm only nodded.

". . . . I suppose I'll have just one."

"Child?" he asked, surprised. He shook his head. "It may seem that way now. But give it time. You're still young."

Humans wouldn't call an eighty-year-old woman young, even if she did have many fertile years left. Malcolm didn't know her age. She looked across the table at a face that was lined and weathered. T'Pol now wished she appeared as old as her peers—as old as she felt.

"Do you think we'll find Destiny?" she asked.

"No leads yet, I'm afraid." Malcolm shrugged. "It's interesting. My contacts say that these captives, or converts—or whatever they are—are eventually given their freedom. But only _after_ they're thoroughly indoctrinated. Some 'recruits' are returned to their families, only to run back to the Triannons within a couple of weeks."

"In that case, we must find my niece sooner rather than later. I have lost a spouse. It would be even worse if Phlox and Amanda were to lose a child."

Malcolm tilted his head in acknowledgement, while T'Pol stared at her soup.

* * *

The abduction of Destiny had thrown them off schedule completely. In the Expanse, the crew of _Enterprise_ had become very enterprising. Each had their duties and their rations, but those who found ways to earn _extra_ money were rewarded directly with credits.

Travis taught them how to operate an efficient freighter, and lined up transport jobs for _Enterprise_. The engineers hired themselves out to do repairs on other ships. Hoshi found a thriving market for foreign-language movies on Grondus V. Even the doctor now accepted compensation for treating alien patients.

Waiting and looking for Destiny had cost them dearly. It was understood that if a break in the case did not come soon, they would all have to move on, or starve.

Malcolm had been fishing for information on Destiny's whereabouts for over a month. Now, he finally had a bite.

He met with the two most senior officers in the conference room. "Captain, my contacts on Siliar 2 have invited us down for a talk—about their Triannon clients."

"Even Triannon preachers have business in Sin City," Jon noted sarcastically.

"Yes," T'Pol continued, "but, not necessarily with the prostitutes. The Triannons appear to be more interested in the arms trade."

Malcolm made an urgent pitch to the captain. "If I were to go down there _in person_, I _might_ be able to persuade my contacts to reveal the location of our missing girl. Failing that, I should try to convince them to negotiate with the Triannons on our behalf."

"We're very low on latinum and spices. We have no trillium to spare. How do we pay?"

"Leave me on the planet. _Enterprise_ can still make that transport run to Fogerup. When she returns, we pay. Of course, I'll need some currency for my own maintenance."

"We can spare 100 credits worth of latinum."

"Jon, that's nowhere near enough."

"It'll have to do."

"Sir, ordinarily I would not bring up personal business at a staff meeting. But as it happens, I have a good friend in the city. She lives near the main market. I was hoping we might get reacquainted."

Jon gave him a dubious look. "Candrine?" he asked.

The two men glanced anxiously at T'Pol, and she tried to reassure them with a look of complete indifference.

"Shendra," Malcolm corrected.

Their unease around her was puzzling. The Vulcan had never judged Malcolm for his affairs, while the humans treated his temporary liaisons as amusing, or even scandalous.

Malcolm continued, "It would be bad form to just show up on the women's doorstep, penniless, and dressed in these rags."

"May I suggest a solution?" T'Pol asked evenly. "Lorian has been reading his father's computer files, teaching himself engineering. In the process, he came across Trip's financial account. Surprisingly, my husband had 2000 credits when he died. We have no idea why he would save that much and hide it from us."

They both looked up, startled.

"Out of that account, I am willing to give Malcolm 200 credits for his personal use."

"T'Pol, I appreciate the offer," Malcolm answered, "but it doesn't seem right. The money is yours."

"If you manage to bring Destiny back to us, I will be forever in _your_ debt," She returned graciously. "Besides I suspect Trip would have loaned you the credits had he been here."

Jon cleared his throat nervously. "Which brings up an awkward subject. I loaned Trip those credits in the first place. It was a verbal agreement. He wanted to buy a present."

"A present? What type of present?" T'Pol asked, now quite curious.

"He didn't say." Jon answered abruptly.

"Then why would you extend the loan?" T'Pol wondered aloud.

"Trip said he would make the money back immediately. And he would have if . . . . well . . . you know." Jon seemed embarrassed, but he ploughed on. "I'm afraid I have to ask for the credits back."

Malcolm stared at the captain open-mouthed. "Unbelievable!" he blurted out.

"Look, it's not for me!" Jon defended himself. "I'll use the money to buy food for the crew. It's either that or cut rations."

"I see how it is. Use them or lose them!" Malcolm spit out. "That's why I don't save credits. They always get confiscated in a crisis."

T'Pol looked to Malcolm, pleading for calm.

". . .Sir," the lieutenant added, backing down.

"Jon," T'Pol, began, turning back to the captain, "though you have no proof of this loan, I will consent to the transfer if you first give 200 credits of latinum to Malcolm."

Now Jon looked hurt, but he nodded reluctantly, and they proceeded. For the rest of the conference the captain wouldn't look either of them in the eye, and when the business was concluded, he stalked out.

As Jon cleared the hatchway, T'Pol looked to Malcolm. _What was that all about?_ they asked each other silently.

"Thank you for your help," Malcolm began hesitantly.

"Do you have any idea what Trip planned to buy?" T'Pol repeated.

"Well, he kept saying that one day he would take you to a beach. Maybe it has something to do with that."

"Our honeymoon was on an artificial beach he created in a cargo bay using sand from a mined asteroid. But I told him I never wanted to go to a real beach. It's too hazardous."

"Maybe he thought you would change your mind once you saw one. It's so beautiful. It's hard to put into words."

"I have seen an ocean. I was not impressed," she answered. "Maybe he wanted to take Lorian. Trip and I always used to argue about it. He regretted that his child had never been to a Minshara-class planet.

"Yes, that IS a shame." Malcolm said wistfully.

"He wanted to teach Lorian to surf." She felt a stab of pain considering the now-impossible scenario and soothed herself with logic. " . . . but Lorian can't even swim. And interplanetary surveys indicate that unpolluted oceans tend to be full of dangerous wildlife."

"I have similar concerns about swimming, but they say it's worth the risk. A plunge can be quite exhilarating. You shouldn't worry. Most kids take to the sea like fish."

"Trip took risks he didn't have to take, and he died because of it. I won't allow this to happen to my son."

"Your son is awfully bright," Malcolm responded calmly. "I've been watching him train. He may run this ship one day. He _should_ visit a planet. We could take him on the next easy supply run. Let him gain some experience."

"My son is only fourteen. He has the next hundred years to become a leader," T'Pol said with finality. She pushed some buttons on the computer. "I have just transferred the credits to your account. May you achieve success in your endeavors." With that, she turned and left the room.

* * *

T'Pol hurried into sickbay. It was good news. Malcolm had managed to contact the Triannons who had Destiny. They'd sent back a picture of the girl to prove she was unharmed. First reports were that everything was OK. Still, when T'Pol entered sickbay she found Amanda crying. Phlox smiled as he tried to comfort her. "There, there. It's fine. She's looks perfectly healthy. It's a _good_ thing she's growing up."

Amanda was holding a padd to her chest, peeking at the picture intermittently. She let T'Pol have brief look, but didn't seem willing relinquish the padd altogether, so Phlox pulled up the picture on his medical viewscreen. The long-lost girl smiled down at them from above, larger than life.

Destiny was wearing foreign clothing, layers of brown dresses and robes. Her ears were pierced, and she had on long dangle earrings.

"She looks so grown up," T'Pol commented.

"I know! It's remarkable!" Phlox answered enthusiastically, then lowered his tone, "Though it's upsetting Amanda."

"It's not fair. I'm missing so much of her life!" Amanda explained. She took a minute to collect herself. "I know, I know . . . it's a _good_ thing. These are happy tears." Maybe she'd convinced herself, because now she wiped her eyes with her fingers. "I'm going to go show the others." She kissed the padd, and then hurried out the door with it.

Phlox gave T'Pol a weary smile.

"We are all relieved to know she's safe." T'Pol said.

"Well, there's finally hope. And how are you doing? You seem to be recovering."

"I believe if I follow a regular routine, over time I will begin to feel . . ." She was searching for a word.

". . .better?" Phlox suggested.

". . . self-sufficient," she decided.

"You don't need to be self-sufficient," Phlox reminded. "There are many people on the ship eager to help you. I believe the captain is now advising Lorian in his studies."

"Yes."

"I know _I_ have not been self-sufficient. I haven't been working much, but medical care on this ship has not suffered, thanks to Liz. My second wife has remained energetic and on-task through this whole ordeal."

"Yes, she is a competent medic."

"Speaking of medical care . . ." Phlox began to pushing buttons on his computer. His daughter's picture disappeared from the medical viewscreen and appeared as wallpaper on his personal monitor. He gave a harrumph of satisfaction, and then turned to T'Pol.

"Have you given any thought to your upcoming pon farr? My records show that you are due to enter your next cycle within the year."

"I admit that I have procrastinated in dealing with the issue."

"It's something we'll have to face within the next half year."

But she didn't want to face it, she yearned for her soulmate. She imagined holding out for Trip, burning with unfilled desire, till the pon farr burst the blood vessels in her brain. It would be a relatively painless way to go and she'd escape the indignity of a successful mating session . . .

But abstinence was a fantasy. She had to stay alive—for Lorian, Earth, Vulcan, and the mission. These things never left her thoughts.

In any case, she'd gotten up close and personal with suicidal depression caring for Trip after the incident at the subspace corridor. He'd blamed himself for their accidental temporal detour. Depression, she knew, wasn't the least bit romantic. Trip hadn't wanted to wash, comb his hair, work, or do anything.

She shook off the ridiculous daydreams; it was time to make some difficult choices.

"Is there any chance I could impose on you?" T'Pol asked. "Would Amanda and Liz mind if I chose you as a partner?"

Phlox smiled apologetically. "I am honored you would ask. However, both Denobulans and humans have taboos that discourage sex between genetically close pairs. In my mind, if not in biological fact, you fall into the category of a close relation. I'm afraid it wouldn't seem right."

"I understand," she answered stoically.

"There are plenty of single men on this ship," Phlox said more cheerfully. "I'm sure you'll be able work out a solution."

The perfect solution, only person she'd ever cared for in that way, was gone. Nothing could bring him back. She needed to find the least-worst alternative.

Realistically, once the fever was upon her, T'Pol knew she could probably approach any of approximately twenty men on board, disrobe, and manage to avoid death. But she remembered how a similarly careless approach had once wounded Trip. Today, she sincerely regretted her "experiment" with human sexuality and the role it may have played in Trip's slide to depression. And what would Lorian make of her example if his mother used men and tossed them aside? Besides, she wasn't some Orion companion. She was a long-time acquaintance and superior officer to almost every man on board. No, this would inevitably get complicated.

In the end there was only one logical choice. It would be necessary to find a willing participant, inform him of the risks . . . including the possibility of a mating bond . . . and work to develop an emotional attachment prior to mating. It wouldn't be easy, as empty as she felt now, but she had a duty to try.

* * *

Trip was eating again. After dropping 10 kilos, he decided to just memorize the damn lessons and get his meals. Now, suddenly he was the star of his introductory religion class. Compared to the other Seekers (a collection of actual seekers and people bribed and rescued into the fold), Trip was the most educated. To keep his mind active and his thoughts from despair, he began to comb the Triannon myths for inconsistencies that he could ask about in class. It was an interesting diversion. And it proved entertaining to the others as well:

"If these Makers are so powerful, what do they need our help for?"

"Why are some of the spheres already broken?"

The teacher, a young Triannon woman with an amazingly complicated hairdo, would actually smile at his interruptions. For some reason, she tolerated debate. His fellow students cheered on the troublemaker, and he quickly became bolder:

"And what's so great about an anomaly eat'n your ship? Trust me. I been to paradise and this in't it."

Soon the students were hearing about Florida, Lorian and T'Pol, and the teachings of Surak, as well as some inconvenient principles of physics. Trip was probably undermining his chances of escape. He should have been faking consent, playing along, winning the trust of his captors. But he just couldn't do it.

Trip knew the network of spheres they were worshiping would eventually destroy the Expanse and spread to his own sector if it could not be stopped, and that the Triannon religion would destroy its practitioners in a catastrophic sectarian war a hundred years into the future. His own fate seemed almost irrelevant next to these truths.

_Be logical and focus. We can do this._ Those were T'Pol's last words to him. His primary responsibility was to his homesick niece, his family, _Enterprise_, and to Earth. _I've got to shut up_, he told himself. But, perhaps it was too late.

* * *

It was late. Lorian, Asatoshi, Glenn, and Carlos were crammed into access tube #27, with blankets and pillows, plates of French fries, and a bottle of ketchup. It was Lorian's fifteenth birthday, and his friends were sleeping over. Out of respect for the dead, they had forgone the traditional horror film in favor of a comedy. Now they were quoting the most ridiculous lines to each other and laughing hysterically. Even Lorian was smiling for the first time in months.

"These fries taste different."

"That's because they ARE different."

"What are they made of this time?"

"Who cares? Just cover it in ketchup. Lorian, what'd you get for your birthday, other than the last bottle of ketchup?"

"He got a necklace," Glenn teased.

"It's a medallion," Lorian corrected. "It's traditional."

Carlos was palming Lorian's newly recycled basketball, "Hey, this has great grip. Let's go to the gym and try it out."

The others ignored his suggestion.

"My dad was going to buy me something big," Lorian revealed "He had borrowed 2000 credits for a gift. But we'll never know what it was."

"Man, that's rough."

"Yeah, we're really sorry about what happened," Carlos offered. Everyone murmured in agreement.

"Your dad was cool," Asatoshi added.

Lorian nodded his thanks. All the laughing had now stopped and Lorian looked away.

"Hey guys, don't talk about it," Glenn advised.

"It's all right," Lorian assured them. But no one had more to say, so they sat there munching fries.

Finally Glenn broke the spell. "I know another present Lorian got . . . a LETTER from _Paris_." The others looked up in interest. "I was there when he opened the file. Shoulda seen his face. Looked like that guy in the movie with his hand in the fish tank." Glenn assumed a pose of frozen shock.

"Shut up. Did not."

"So what was in the letter?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Man, I don't know what she sees in you." Carlos shook his head appreciatively. "Must have a thing for _short_ guys."

"I think she likes the way I beat your butt every time I go up against _you_ in basketball."

"I can take you, Vulcan!"

"In basketball?"

"In anything!"

Now Lorian pounced on Carlos and they struggled to pin each other to the metal grill flooring.

"Hey, stop the wrestling, There's no room in here." Asatoshi warned. "You're rolling on the fries."

Carlos banged his head on a metal strut. "OW!"

Lorian sat up examining a ketchup stain on his elbow. "Shit"

"I can't believe your mom lets you talk that way." It was little Asatoshi, son of the English teacher.

"She let his _dad_ talk that way." Carlos raised an arm defensively, and snickered. He found it funny when Lorian's mom would give orders to his dad. Lorian wondered how such attitudes had survived into the human space age—and was about to pound him when Glenn signaled for quiet. "Hey, I hear the girls!" Glenn whispered.

"Up this late? It's impossible," Lorian decided. "They wouldn't be hav'n Destiny's party without her . . . Hey, man! Who ripped a fart?"

Now the others were doing it on purpose.

"You Reptilians! We've got to sleep in here!" Lorian protested.

"No we don't!" Carlos countered. "Evacuate! Last one to the gym gets Asatoshi on his team!"

The boys tumbled out of the tube. Lorian spilled out into the hallway behind Glenn and Carlos. He pulled himself upright and found Paris standing among them. She was wearing make-up and was dressed to kill—at midnight. For a moment, all the boys stood and stared.

"Happy birthday, Lorian," she said… and waited.

Lorian ran a hand through his messy hair and wished he hadn't just been rolling in the ketchup. But Paris didn't seem to mind his appearance. Lorian reviewed her letter in his mind.

"OK, Lorian, we're outta here," Carlos called to him. "We'll see you when we see you!" He got no response. The three boys broke formation and ran. Laughter broke out as they rounded the corner.

Lorian pondered the letter, searching for clues on how to proceed. _She wants to "get together." Said I can "call the shots."_ But this wasn't basketball, and he didn't know what shots to call. His heart pounded and his knees felt unsteady as curiosity waged a war with sheer panic.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked.

"No," he answered truthfully.

Paris reached to place her hand against his face—like his mom would do to check his temperature. _Probably just an excuse to touch me._

Lorian caught her wrist. "It won't work," he explained, his face a mask. "Our temperature is higher than yours."

He brought her hand down gently and examined it with both of his.

"What are you doing?" she asked, relaxing her hand.

He arranged her fingers slowly. "It's kind of like a secret handshake."

Their fingertips touched. She looked up, startled, and he grinned back. _She felt it too._

* * *

T'Pol was there to meet Malcolm as he climbed up out of the shuttle pod. The security officer had returned from Siliar 2 with good news, though most of it he had already been forwarded to them. The bottom line was that negotiations with the Triannons had been initiated. A deal might be possible. Malcolm was proud of the accomplishment, and graciously accepted T'Pol's congratulations.

He expected her to turn on her heel and go after greeting him. Instead, she offered to carry his bags—an uncharacteristic gesture. He was about to object, but stopped himself, hoping to avoid a lecture about the superior strength of Vulcans relative to humans.

"Was your visit enjoyable as well as productive?" she asked.

"You want to know about Shendra," he realized.

They stopped. She stared back without comment. _Well why not? I would have told Trip. T'Pol probably learned all my previous business through that psychic connection._ "To tell you the truth, in that department, things didn't go quite as smoothly as I'd expected."

They returned to walking, but she raised an eyebrow in interest, encouraging him to go on.

"At first she was glad to see me—_very_ glad to see me. Then, three days into my visit, we started to argue. She pressured me to make the relationship more permanent. As much as I'd love to do that, I just can't. I tried to explain—the Xindi, the mission. I can't leave _Enterprise_." He shook his head. "A pity, really."

"Did you ask her to come here?"

They stopped again. "I'm embarrassed to say I never thought of that," he confessed.

"Jon and Major Hayes have both invited spouses aboard."

"Huh." They returned to walking. "It must be simpler on Vulcan. I hear you are assigned a mate."

"Yes. As a result, almost all Vulcans eventually marry."

"Maybe someone should assign me a mate. I can't seem to make up my mind."

They arrived at his door and he entered the code. He stepped inside and she handed him his bags.

"May I make a suggestion?" T'Pol asked.

"Certainly."

"You should marry me."

He laughed. To his knowledge, it was the first time she had ever been funny on purpose. She gazed back at him with an expectant expression that was starting to make him nervous. Malcolm's laugh turned into a coughing fit. He couldn't catch his breath and began to turn purple. At least the coughing gave him an excuse to keep a hand over his mouth . . . to hide the smirk he couldn't suppress. _Poor Trip,_ he thought, _first Ruby and now this._

* * *

Trip was silent and brooding. He had vowed to be "good," i.e. less confrontational, with his teachers. But today it was easy to be quiet. The topic was disturbing. His teacher was describing alternative timelines, which the Makers could supposedly see happening simultaneously. But, something about this part of the myth rang true. The Sphere Builders were transdimensional after all, and time was just another dimension. Trip recognized that he himself lived in an alternative timeline. Ever since the subspace corridor, he had felt a little uneasy about the fact.

On sleepless nights, Trip had often feared that, sooner or later, Daniels or some equivalent would catch up to _Enterprise,_ declare them superfluous, and blink them out of existence. The next morning, in the artificial light of day, his worries would seem ridiculous. As Trip struggled to maintain a ship without replacement parts, Malcolm defended the ship against pirates, and Travis scrounged for transport jobs in an overcrowded market it was apparent that their situation was plenty precarious—with or without the temporal police.

"Seeker Tucker? Don't you have any questions?" The teacher looked at him expectantly.

"Yeah," he said, waking from his daydreams. "What did you say would happen to the alternative timeline?"

"Most people believe that the secondary timeline is unstable. That it will proceed until it achieves its purpose, then dissolve."

"In how many cycles? One, a hundred, a thousand?"

"I honestly don't know. Not much is known about secondary timelines. Though sometimes we glimpse one near an anomaly. I have seen it myself."

"How can we know of ours is the primary or the secondary timeline?"

"It doesn't matter. All of existence is one in the eyes of the Makers."

He settled back in his chair.

The teacher looked almost disappointed. She dismissed the class, who filed out to attend another round of prayers and worship. As he waited in line to exit the portal, she called him over.

"Is there a problem?" she asked kindly, "You seem to be troubled."

"I want to go home," he repeated with stubborn determination.

"Look . . . Uncle Trip."

He snorted.

"I'm sorry. May I call you "Uncle Trip?"

"Not unless you're my sibling's kid. Though I'm probably old enough to be your uncle."

"Is that how you're related to Destiny?"

"Look . . . it's a long story." The teacher had been kind to him. She put up with his questions. "If you want to be less formal call me 'Charles'—it's my first name."

"Char-les," she said, testing the word on her tongue. She gave him a sly smile.

Trip laughed. _She likes me._ The engineer had just found a lever. _Give me a lever and a place to stand and I can move the Earth . . . or maybe save it._

"So, how'd a clever woman like you end up with a silly job like this?" Trip asked, stepping into her space. He lifted his brow, awaiting an answer.

"My job is prestigious," she said, sounding uncertain.

"Yeah, but you don't even believe all the crap you're feed'n us. Admit it. You're trapped here too."

She looked at the floor. He reached out and touched her face, tipping her chin up until she met his gaze. He read the guilty look in her eye, then dropped his hand.

"You could get us outta here . . ." he whispered insistently.

"I can't." She turned her back to him and continued. "You've learned too much about the spheres—on your ship and in your journey with us. If you return, you will try to use this knowledge to destroy the spheres and our whole way of life. If it weren't for my protection they'd have found an excuse to execute you by now."

"Look," he said pursuing her, "this phenomenon is detrimental to _all_ the species in the Expanse. Believ'n otherwise won't change that. Help me, and you help yourself."

A gong began to sound. If the teacher had been as fanatical as her peers, she would have been pleased. It meant they had found an anomaly. Instead, the woman turned and looked up at him in fear.

When Triannons came across an anomaly, they would try to match direction and speed and "surf" the phenomenon. Then the worshipers would gather in the main arena, shouting, crying, getting hysterical. They would dare one another to get closer to the distortion, until someone was hurt or killed.

"I gotta find Destiny," Trip told her as he bolted for the hall. "You watch yourself, ya hear?"

He waded through the crowded hallway looking for his niece. Finally, he spotted her among an eager throng of boys. They were bragging to her about something. Probably planning to show off their bravery once in the arena. She was smiling appreciatively.

"Destiny! Destiny! Wait up!" he called.

"Look, it's that heretic," Trip heard one of the boys say.

He'd caught up to her and placed a hand on the back of her neck. "You're with me," he said, as he tried to steer her out of the crowd.

"Uncle Trip, I'm fifteen. Let me go with my friends."

"Your friends are gonna get themselves killed over this nonsense." He called out to the boys who were heading into the arena. "Y'all be careful in there." They just ignored him. One glared back.

"Uncle Trip! You're embarrassing me!"

An armed Triannon saw the two non-worshippers lingering in the hall, and gestured for them to enter the arena. Trip reluctantly stepped inside. The show was already in progress. People were throwing items into the anomaly to watch them warp and bend.

Trip steered Destiny towards the more stable side of the distortion. In the frenzied mob, it was safe to talk. "Look, don't get too cozy here. I'm gonna get us out. I promise."

Destiny gasped and pointed. Projected from the anomaly were "ghosts." Trip felt a shiver. _A glimpse of a secondary timeline. Part of the dogma is true._

Now Destiny squealed. One of the "ghosts" was her. The ghostly Destiny seemed to see them across the anomaly. "Uncle Trip!" the apparition called, running towards them. Then a scream of pain as the ghostly girl crumpled to the floor holding her arm. The vision vanished, and then the anomaly itself.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Lorian stood with the anxious crowd crammed in the corridor, one of the first in line. About thirty people had gathered outside the doors to the shuttle bay. The Triannon kidnappers had agreed to return Destiny, one year after abducting her, in exchange for a promise that the _Enterprise_ crew would never again "desecrate spheres." _Her pod should already have landed. Why's it taking so long?_ Lorian wondered. Outwardly he looked calm.

Lorian held his breath once he heard the clunk—the pod landing. A hiss of repressurization. Finally the doors opened. Those closest to the door spilled onto the catwalks and the away team climbed out of the pod with their precious cargo. First Malcolm stepped out, a weapon lowered at the floor, and raced up the metal steps then a 15 year-old girl in alien dress and hairstyle, followed by Aunt Amanda in her tattered and faded MACO gear. A cheer went up the crowd as Phlox reached out a hand to Destiny and practically dragged her up the ladder, but, oddly didn't hug her. He inspected her and let out a squawk. Some uniquely Denobulan vocalization. Then she grabbed her father and buried her head in his shirt. Lorain's resolve to act cool, almost dissolved as adults around him began crying. Even his mother eyes were shining as she clasped Malcolm's hand in relief.

"Things went quite smoothly. She seems fine," Malcolm called to the people craning their necks to see. Those nearest the girl began to gasp. The skin on her right hand and forearm was badly scarred, twisted as if she'd suffered a collision with an anomaly.

Archer forced a smile, pretending not to notice. "OK, everyone. They want just the immediate family. The rest of us can continue this party in mess hall!"

Malcolm gave T'Pol a reassuring smile, with a lingering look as he took a step away. He wasn't immediate family. T'Pol continued to grip his hand. For a moment Lorian wondered if his mom was finally making a public statement about her new "best friend." But no, it was just some kind of delayed panic. Now she released the hand and redirected her attention to the family reunion as Malcolm headed down the hall.

"Oh my God, Mandy! Is that really you, you're so big!" Destiny gushed. Her 5-year-old sister looked bewildered as her older sister grabbed her up, hugged her, and twirled her around, her loose, brown and tan overcoats flying outwards. Inwardly Lorian cringed to see Destiny so comfortable in the clothing of the Triannons.

She turned to Lorian and looked him up and down. They'd both changed; they were passing through the awkward-looking teenage years. Lorian was no longer as short or as cute; he was not yet handsome. His half-Denobulan twin was in about the same situation. She was blossoming, but not as beautifully as Paris. Lorian sympathized totally. He noted Destiny's twisted limb and closed his eyes to suppress a wave of anger at the homicidal religious fanatics who'd killed his dad and encouraged her to worship anomalies.

He opened his eyes. "Hey, Sis," Lorian croaked, his changing voice betraying him. _Oh well, it's not like it matters today._ He held out his arms and she practically knocked him backwards as she ran into them.

"Aunt T'Pol, Aunt Liz!" Destiny continued, "Evan! Chelsea! Flessel! I missed you all so much!"

"Uncle Trip?" Destiny asked, oblivious. _Aunt Amanda must not have told her._

"He's not here," Lorian replied simply, sparing them all a public recitation of the tragedy.

T'Pol shot her son a look of approval.

Amanda grabbed her daughter by the shoulders like she might never let her go and steered her back to her nuclear family. "Thank you everyone. I love you! Thank you."

Phlox was back to himself as well. With his widest grin he told his extended family, "I feel like I'm on Denobula—you've all been so supportive. We were never alone through this." The ecstatic commotion continued as the relatives wandered on down the corridor some going home, some joining the bigger celebration.

* * *

The "twins" were finally back together. The next day, after the party had died down, Lorian and Destiny had found a quiet unused corridor. They were sitting alongside opposite walls, across the floor from one another, tucked up against the bulkheads. Neither faced the other when they spoke. As close as they were, it was still easier to address the personal questions to the steel beams.

"So, what was it like over there?"

"It wasn't too bad. This one woman was like my mother and my teacher. They seemed to care about me. You know, they wanted me to be "saved" when the Makers returned to the Chosen Realm. Triannons believe the Makers are turning the Expanse into a paradise and . . . "

"You can skip that part . . ."

"But . . ."

"I want to know how they treated you. I don't care about their crazy religion. So how'd you communicate?"

"Their translators work perfectly. They're all about communication. They try to convert alien nonbelievers throughout the Expanse. That's their primary mission."

"Not to bomb people who are minding their own business?"

"NO! Anyways, not my friends . . ."

Lorian made no comment. His mother had warned him she might need time to re-acclimate. Lorian, got up and looked at the floor. He began carefully kicking at a rip in the carpet, tearing it wider.

"Lorian. I'm so sorry to hear about your Dad . . . I didn't know. "

Lorian nodded. "Well, he died trying to save Earth."

They thought about this a minute.

"Lorian? You're not going to believe me, but I saw your dad over there . . . across an anomaly."

"Yeah, you've also seen Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny." It was true. She had a vivid imagination.

"Lorian, stop that! I'm serious."

Lorian stopped ripping the carpet and turned and squatted on his heels. He would listen to her silly story. "All right . . . ." he said reluctantly.

"Well . . . one day, after I'd been there like forever, we were blessed with an anomaly. Everyone gathered to experience it. It was a big room. It was awesome. I tossed my tokens at the anomaly to send them to another world. Then through the anomaly I saw your Dad standing—with another me. I heard him say, 'I'm gonna get us out of here.' I hadn't seen anyone from home in so long. I didn't think. I ran to him. But I collided with the anomaly and my arm got twisted."

""I'm gonna get us out of here?'" Lorian repeated dubiously.

"Yes," she confirmed.

_So she heard what she was hoping to hear._

"Triannons believe in alternative timelines . . ."

"I know. It's on the game they gave us."

"So you don't think alternative timelines exist?"

"I'm sure they do, but so what?"

"If I hadn't seen your dad and messed up my arm, I never would have gotten home. It's kind of a big deal over there to be hurt by an anomaly. They call it "feeling the breath of the Makers.' After that, I was a hero. The Triannons thought I had converted. They sent me back here as a prophet. Your dad helped me; even if he didn't know it."

"It's a shame your arm is messed up. Can you still play basketball?" he asked, changing the subject.

"It doesn't matter any more. Basketball is kid's stuff."

Lorian decided not to argue with her. "So have you converted?"

"No, of course not!"

_Finally some good news._ He could relax a little. _Give it time. She'll be back to normal._

"Sometimes it feels like the whole crew here has converted." He confessed to her. "After my dad died everything just came to a stop. The mission is on hold. We're no longer investigating spheres, or planning their destruction, or anything."

Two adults were heading down the hall. The kids got quiet. "Hey, Destiny," one called. "Glad you're back!" said the other said. " . . . Lorian."

Destiny smiled and waved as they passed.

Now Destiny looked at her twin mischievously. "But it wasn't all bad while I was gone."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you have secrets to tell me?"

"It's been a rotten year. Nothing good happened."

"Paris says you and her are boyfriend and girlfriend"

"No!" Lorian said startled, "I told her 'no.'"

"She says you kissed."

He was busted. He should have known Paris wouldn't keep her mouth shut. _How do I explain this? I don't even know what I was doing._

He rolled his eyes miserably. "It was _her_ idea. It was . . . kind of . . . an experiment. But then she starts saying that we're 'bonded.' I told her it doesn't work that way."

Destiny smiled, amused. "Paris loves the drama," she agreed.

"We've all had enough drama," Lorian stated. He looked across the room at his closest female friend and felt a surge of relief. "I'm just really glad you're back."

* * *

Yesterday was a huge relief, T'Pol considered as she stepped from the shower. For so long she'd been unsettled. Now a heavy burden had lifted. When Malcolm walked off that shuttlepod, smiling triumphantly, slinging a weapon, with her niece alive and well . . .gloomy thoughts had flown out the airlock. Good things did happen. She could make a fresh start.

She put her briefest silky pajamas on under her best jumper. She was finally ready to move on. She'd told Malcolm it was time.

She stepped from the bathroom just as the doors to their quarters swished open. It was Lorian. T'Pol was pleased to see him. These days she and her son didn't always intersect. She missed their old routine of shared daily mediation, but now that Lorian was older she no longer forced the issue. Maybe he was meditating on his own—or maybe not. In any case, he seemed reasonably self-controlled for a teenager—Vulcan or human.

Lorian threw his pads on the table and slumped in a chair.

"So," T'Pol inquired, "Have you had an opportunity to talk with Destiny?"

"Yeah."

"How is she responding to recent events?"

"She seems almost normal, . . . actually." He paused a moment. "It's still hard to listen to her talk about the 'Makers.'"

"Myths are often founded on truths. If you do not react emotionally to her stories, you may be able to learn something useful about the Sphere Builders and their purpose in this Expanse."

"I guess the readings Dad took on that last sphere didn't help us?"

"Your father's readings may still be useful. I confess I haven't had time to analyze them properly."

"Mother! It's been like a year. Maybe you should let me look."

"You can not interpret this data without an understanding of hyperdimensional subspace matrix theory. Have you finished your language homework for Ms. Sato?"

Lorian shrugged. "Yeah, but I don't see the point. We're just going to go out and use the translator anyway."

"Warp field studies?"

"Done. Why am I still in school with these kids?

"Are you not a kid?"

"I'm smarter than all of them. I should be out DOING something."

"You will find it difficult to keep friends with that superior attitude."

"You should know, Mom."

T'Pol's noted the cutting remark without allowing herself an emotional reaction. She merely raised an eyebrow at her son to signal her disapproval.

"What?" Lorian responded, "You're everyone's superior officer. I just mean . . . it must be hard." His expression was totally sincere.

_At least he is communicating, however inappropriately._ T'Pol decided. According the human database and conventional wisdom, it was important to maintain parent–child communication through her son's adolescence. T'Pol's parents would have sent her out into the desert for some self-reflection if she had spoken so carelessly. "I'm going to meet Malcolm for dinner." She wished to remind her son she _did_ have friends.

Lorian shifted in his chair and his expression turned sullen.

"Are you bothered that I'm spending time with Malcolm?" she asked.

"Whatever."

"If you continue to use imprecise wording, then I will ask you to speak to me in Vulcan."

"Mom, I just want you to be happy," Lorian clarified. "Do they even have that phrase in Vulcan?"

* * *

She stood at the door and called: "Lieutenant, I need you to check tomorrow's duty roster."

"Thank you T'Pol, . . ." The door slid open, Malcolm reached out grabbed her elbow. He pulled her in toward him and the door slid shut behind her. ". . .but you're going to give us away. We've been on a first-name basis for _seventeen years._"

"I'm sorry, it's been about that many years since I've had to . . . 'sneak around,'" She sniffed his breath. "You've been drinking."

"Just a little. Forgive me, but this is still a little strange. It helps me relax."

They stood for a moment looking at each other over; considering the arrangement they had agreed to. She had a feeling of trepidation. _This will go badly._

_Be objective._ That approach had gotten her through situations more threatening than this one. Avoiding his eyes, she assessed her chosen mate. He was very well proportioned. Evolution had designed each species to select such partners. They tended to be healthier. _I'm doing the right thing._

He slipped his left hand in hers and their fingers intertwined. Trip's fingers had been solid and square. Malcolm's were long and bony. _Don't think of Trip_.

Her partner was inches from her face. She forced herself to look up and across at him. _He isn't as tall . . ._ but his body was warm and real pressed against hers. He leaned in; his open mouth met hers; their tongues slid into a wet inner space and tentatively explored the new surroundings. _Mmmm._ He tasted good . . . if a little different.

She stopped and he held her. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do that," He told her.

"When I was with Trip?"

"No! Are you kidding? Ever since your 'proposal.' I was afraid you were going to make me wait till the pon farr."

"That would be unfair to you. As I explained, I cannot promise that you will find those proceedings enjoyable."

"Yes, you warned me—the 'overuse injuries'," he sighed. "It all sounds very . . . tedious." He cracked a smile and she realized he was joking.

He kissed her again and she kissed him back. It was all so much easier than she had thought it would be. _He is quite skilled._ T'Pol wondered if he would find her own skills adequate. She'd only had experience with one other man, and he'd been easy to please. Fortunately, instinct awakened, providing direction, and Malcolm offered no complaints about that direction. T'Pol no longer worried; she was lost in the moment. They stumbled to the floor.

Beep! . . . beep! . . . beep! It was the comm. The pulsing signal was annoying. "Ignore it," T'Pol pleaded in a low voice. She was hungry to move on. Malcolm hovered over her, while the beeping stopped, thend started up again. Now it was truly distracting. Malcolm released her, and with an angry groan and went to answer.

"Reed here."

"MOM!" It was Lorian over the comm link. "Destiny's run off. . ."

Malcolm looked to her in alarm. She wished to reassure him.

"To where did she run?" T'Pol asked evenly. _There are no ships docked; she can't get away._

"She's here, at our quarters. She had a fight with her mom."

Malcolm gave a pained sigh of relief.

"Then it's not an emergency. You talk to her till I get back"

"But mom . . ."

"I'll be home soon." She motioned Malcolm to cut the connection.

He looked at her, surprised. "You're staying?" He seemed flattered.

"Yes, a little while longer."

Malcolm smiled. Maybe he had expected her to run at the first excuse. He came back over to where she was now sitting on the bed, and reached for her. They tried to get back into it . . . they were succeeding . . .

There was a knock at the door.

"T'Pol, Malcolm, can I come in?" It was Amanda. She sounded distressed.

Malcolm dropped what he was doing and made a dash for the washroom.

"Certainly. I need two minutes," T'Pol replied, checking her clothing.

"Oh, . . . OK . . . I'm sorry," Amanda stammered.

T'Pol went over and met Malcolm at the open bathroom door, taking his shoulder and gently moving him aside to check herself in the mirror.

"Can you return tonight?" he whispered.

"I think so." A wide-eyed stare expressed her apologies.

"You look fine," he assured her.

T'Pol left Malcolm's quarters and joined Amanda in the hall.

"So . . .?" Amanda prompted, grinning in anticipation of T'Pol's response.

"As you may have guessed, Malcolm and I are "seeing each other" in preparation for a sexual encounter." T'Pol informed her curious friend. "I would appreciate it if you keep this information confidential."

"Wow! Of course," Amanda promised. "So . . . . this is like . . . love? . . .lust?. . the pon farr? . . . what?"

"You believe those categories to be mutually exclusive?"

"Not necessarily . . . ," her friend smiled, knowingly.

"Then, you can understand that our courtship is . . . multipurpose."

"I won't say anything," Amanda assured her.

"What happened with Destiny?" T'Pol asked, getting back to business.

"Well, you know I was upset that she got her ears pierced over there. I simply suggested that that she close up the piercing till she's a little older. Then she went nuts. Now I'm not even sure she'll agree to having her arm fixed. She wouldn't discuss it. She ran to your quarters."

* * *

When the two women entered the room, Destiny and Lorian were in a heated discussion.

"Well it's _not_ like a tattoo and no one around _here_ thinks it's cool," Lorian was saying to the girl, gesturing towards her damaged arm.

"You guys'll never approve of anything I do. You treat me like a baby. Over there people respected me."

"We don't respect you? Our whole fricking ship came to a stop—for a year—so we could look for you."

"Well now I'm back and I've changed," She told him. "You can't pretend nothing happened and I'm still 14. Lorian and Paris aren't the only ones who've grown up."

Lorian reacted by glaring at his "sister" and then turning his back.

Amanda and T'Pol looked to each other, confused.

"Honey, you and Lorian are exactly the same age," Amanda cooed.

"I don't want to talk to you," Destiny cried. "I want to talk to Aunt T'Pol, she'll believe me. And _she_ has a tattoo."

_How did she learn that?_ T'Pol wondered.

"Night, ladies," Lorian said dismissively, now heading for the door.

"Lorian!" T'Pol corrected. "You will address us properly!"

"Yes'm," the boy muttered, turning to face them. "_Mother_ . . . ," He pronounced with exaggerated care, "Aunt Amanda." T'Pol nodded and he was off.

Amanda looked to T'Pol apologetically. "I didn't want Destiny to bother you with this. You're the one who might find it upsetting. She wants to tell you about a dream she had of Trip."

"It _wasn't_ a dream," Destiny insisted, sounding hurt.

"Denobulans have the capacity to see things that aren't there. Phlox says the hallucinations help relieve stress."

"MOM!" Destiny shouted infuriated.

"Amanda. Let me hear her story. It is my job as science officer to evaluate accounts of puzzling phenomena. This is no different."

"Of course it's different," Amanda scolded.

T'Pol changed her approach. "I have observed that a child will often take advice more easily from someone who is not their parent."

"Well . . . I can't argue with you there."

"After we talk, Destiny will return home," T'Pol suggested. Mother and daughter reluctantly agreed to the plan.

* * *

It had been a fascinating discussion. Destiny did seem much more mature than the last time they had talked. In fact the last time Destiny had confided in T'Pol, it was to tattle on Lorian—to report some minor misbehavior, the details of which she could no longer recall. (The days of monitoring small children, with their constant needs, now seemed like another lifetime.)

T'Pol refocused her attention on Destiny's latest claim. It was strange that her niece would hallucinate about Trip and not her own parents. The Trip in her niece's dream was wearing a worn-out uniform . . . exactly what Trip had been wearing when he left _Enterprise_ . . . while everyone around him wore brown Triannon clothing. Did that make the girl's story more or less plausible? She could easily picture her husband stranded on that ship, wearing the uniform she'd handed him over a year ago.

I'm fine. Don't worry. The words she'd thought she'd heard from Trip after his accident. T'Pol understood Destiny's predicament. She'd need strong evidence if she wanted to convince others of something totally implausible. T'Pol felt a stab of loneliness. Malcolm is waiting, she remembered.

She glanced at her chronometer and was startled. _It's 11:20. I've got to get back._

She stood outside Malcolm's door and called him.

"Hmmm?" came the sound from behind the door. _He sounds disoriented. He was sleeping._

"It is T'Pol, should I come in?"

"Unnn!" She heard a clunk as his feet hit the floor. The door opened and she slipped in. He was squinting at her. "How'd it go?"

"Fine"

"Sorry, I fell asleep. I'll blame it on the alcohol."

"There is no need to apologize. I was hoping you would let me sleep with you."

"Actually sleep?" He waited for a response. There was none. "All right."

She took off her jumper revealing the silky pajamas. Malcolm reacted appreciatively. She climbed into the narrow bed and he spooned next to her. He caressed her arm and kissed the back of her neck. She felt guilty at her nonresponse. _Intimacy between a Vulcan and a human is quite rare,_ she reminded herself. _Perhaps the case with Trip will prove to be unique._ Suddenly, the situation seemed to her to be unbearably sad and difficult. Inwardly, she struggled to suppress these dark emotions. Outwardly she maintained control. She answered her partner's murmured questions about her welfare and that of her niece as simply as possible. Finally, Malcolm gave up in his attempts to engage her. He went to sleep, while she lay awake, thinking things over.

* * *

The senior staff was gathered in the conference room. Malcolm and T'Pol selected the seats farthest from each other.

It was getting harder for Malcolm to pretend nothing was going on . . . even if it wasn't—yet. Last night she had slept in his bed! And to think she had once seemed so intimidating. As he waited for the crew to settle in their seats, he recalled her "proposal"; how it had almost given him a heart attack. _Who would've thought she actually had feelings for me?_

T'Pol glanced his way, and he ignored her. From her amateur attempts at subterfuge, it was difficult to imagine she'd once been an undercover operative.

Jon began the meeting. He was in a good mood. He congratulated them all on their recent success in bringing Destiny home, acknowledging Malcolm's contribution in particular. Malcolm felt the day couldn't get any better—and then it did.

"I propose Malcolm receive a monetary reward of 1000 credits to be paid as soon as we secure the funds," the captain said.

All around the table the officers were raising hands and shouting in agreement.

"Then it's unanimous!"

"So, I'm guessing it's off to Siliar IV for some R&R." Rostov laughed, poking an elbow into Malcolm's side.

"Perhaps," Malcolm answered amicably. T'Pol would understand that he'd been cornered.

"Well, I'm afraid that may not be possible." Jon cautioned. "Malcolm? I hope that's not a problem."

"Not at all, sir."

"Good, because . . . we hope to be leaving this sector very soon. It's time we put some light years between ourselves and the Triannon homeworld."

"How soon? T'Pol asked.

"Travis, what's the schedule? We're due to receive a shipment of Trellium in what? Two days?"

"One and a half. And then we're free to go."

"Jon, I ask that you consider delaying this move." It was T'Pol "A new phenomenon has just been brought to my attention. It may be particular to the space around this sphere. It will require some time to discern its nature."

Malcolm perked up his ears.

"Captain, this had better be important," Travis cautioned "Trellium is fetching a high price in sector 3-8-2. Prices will fall quickly once others learn of the shortage."

The captain nodded to Travis then turned back to T'Pol. "What sort of phenomenon?" he inquired. His tone was upbeat, but tinged with impatience.

"Visual and auditory manifestations of other realities have been reported near the anomalies," she informed him.

"Reported by whom?"

"Myself . . . and now Destiny."

Malcolm was dismayed. This story was implausible, and to make matters worse, T'Pol was going to give it out in bits. That habit never failed to annoy the captain.

"I'm listening," Jon prompted.

"A year ago I heard something. Yesterday, Destiny reported to me that she has also heard and seen something."

"And what did you two hear and see?"

She hesitated a moment while the officers shifted nervously. "It was Trip."

The captain gave her a disappointed look. Malcolm surveyed the worried faces.

T'Pol pressed on. "Immediately after my husband's accident, as you will recall, I heard his voice through the bond. Yesterday, Destiny reported a similar experience while on the Triannon ship. In both instances, the perceptions seem to have been facilitated by an anomaly."

"What exactly did Destiny report?"

"While Destiny was worshipping with the Triannons at an anomaly, visual apparitions came into focus. She claims that through the distortion she recognized an image of herself with the commander. She heard him say 'I'm going to get us out of here.' She ran towards the image, into the anomaly, and injured her arm."

Hoshi looked thoughtful. "There could be something to this. The game the Triannons gave Asatoshi involves similar scenarios. It's as if these manifestations are a regular occurrence for these people."

Rostov rolled his eyes. "Sounds like we need a Ouija board to get to the bottom of this mystery."

"Commander!" Hoshi scolded.

"No, this intolerable!" Rostov said, genuinely upset. "I think T'Pol is suggesting we take the ship into an anomaly field to chase after ghosts. _Enterprise_ has to hold together for the next hundred years. The way we're pushing her, I can't promise she'll last till next Tuesday!"

"We would not need to take _Enterprise_ into an anomaly field." T'Pol answered in a flat tone. "Perhaps one shuttle pod . . ."

"You see! She's serious!" Rostov threw up his hands.

"No one's taking any of our vessels into any anomaly fields," Jon declared. "Not on purpose." Rostov looked relieved. "T'Pol, as intriguing as this lead is, we can no longer justify exploration for its own sake."

"There may be practical benefits," she pressed. "The research may provide us with a fuller understanding of transdimensional physics and the working of the spheres."

"How much understanding do we need to be able to blow these things up?" Rostov countered. "No matter how fancy the physics, we still need to locate the one sphere that regulates the others. Which reminds me . . . T'Pol you never got back to me with the results of the scan that Trip and Travis took over a year ago. "

"I'm sorry. I need a few more days."

The officers steeled themselves, waiting for Jon's reaction. "Make it your first priority!" came the reprimand.

"Captain," she persisted, "I fear that alternative versions of Destiny and Trip are still out there, stranded on that ship."

"Look," The Captain paused and began to pace. He began again in a softer tone. "I'm willing to entertain the possibility that Trip is still alive in that parallel universe. But I'm afraid Alternative Trip will just have to fend for himself. It was hard enough rescuing Destiny from that other ship. How do we rescue two people from another ship in another dimension.?

"Perhaps if we sent a message . . . "

"a message . . . ?"

" . . . through a hyperdimensional rift."

"And what of all the other crewmen we've lost along the way. Do we go back to look for alternative versions of them as well?"

"The other Destiny can't fend for herself. I fear this isn't really over. Not for her."

"What do Phlox and Amanda say about all this?"

Malcolm spoke up. "They aren't concerned. They believe their daughter is hallucinating."

"Good!" The Captain concluded. "Let's keep it that way. T'Pol I need you to drop this. God forbid we put that poor couple through this again."

T'Pol looked down at the table.

Jon's paced another circle, his face scrunched in thought. He came to a stop behind her chair. "T'Pol," He said more gently, "that other Trip said he would escape. Why not just believe him? If he exists at all, I know he'd find a way to get back to you and Lorian."

T'Pol met the stares of the other officers. "I'm not asking for your pity. I am fine. But two others are in jeopardy."

There was an awkward silence around the room. It was a lost cause and Malcolm's girlfriend was prepared to go down fighting for it. _This will be ugly,_ he worried; then an inspiration hit.

"Sir," Malcolm interjected. He tilted his head in thought. "I just realized there's a way that T'Pol could investigate this phenomenon, without risk to anyone—and without delaying our departure."

"OK . . ."

"This year we had a breach in the Trellium shielding on Cargo Bay 3. Before we had a chance to patch it up, we experienced intermittent anomalies in that area for three months. People used to go watch the show… to see the crates stick to the walls. We happen to have security cameras in that room, monitoring our valuables. Let's see if they picked up any 'ghosts.' We have nothing to lose."

"How much time would this take?"

"A day or two, maybe less. I could assign the job to a subordinate."

"That's fine, if you can do it without alerting Phlox and Amanda. Malcolm, you oversee the project. T'Pol, stay away from it. I need you reviewing those scans."

"If we find evidence of an alternative universe, can we pursue the Triannon ship?" T'Pol asked.

Jon smiled. He seemed amused by her tenacity. "We'll cross _that_ 'hyperdimensional rift' when we come to it," he quipped.

* * *

Later that day, T'Pol stopped procrastinating and reran the tests. The results were the same. No matter which way she analyzed the scans, there was nothing to suggest that the sphere they were leaving behind was any different from the others. It was not the regulator of the system. It could not be used to initiate an explosive, positive feedback loop. It not was the key to their problems a hundred years from now. Trip had given his life to gather this data, and it was going to be a dead end.

That night she slept in her own bed and dreamed restless, abstract dreams She and the ship's computer were a single consciousness, mining data, eagerly sorting and searching, —looking for an elegant solution, or even a messy one.

She watched a set of eleven-dimensional blobs, each corresponding to a separate universe. The shapes twisted and contorted, but not randomly. Somehow their motions depended on her. Everything depended on her. The humans talked of Schrödinger's cat. If T'Pol didn't search for Trip across the invisible plane, would he even exist? An aggravating quantum probability function described her husband—he was potentially everywhere but nowhere in particular.

The blobs bounced against each other in higher dimensional space-time. Two collided and stuck like a pair of jiggling soap bubbles. Local space deformed and suddenly an opening connected the separate realities.

"T'Pol!" A familiar voice. It was distinct and loud. She opened her eyes.

It was Trip, standing over her bed. "I don't get it . . .Whata you think you're do'n?" he cried throwing out his hands, "I understand ya gotta live, but . . . .HELL! . . .you couldn't even wait for the fever?" He was angry. She wanted to touch him to calm him, but found she was paralyzed. She couldn't even speak. "And Malcolm?" He seemed incredulous. "It had to be _Malcolm?!_"

She struggled to move a muscle or make a sound. Finally she burst free of the phantom restraints. She awoke shaking—burning with shame, knowing her choice had been ridiculous.


	4. Chapter 4

**Heresy**

By justTrip'

Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: No infringement intended. Writing for myself and others on this site. I respect the Star Trek writers who gave us these compelling characters!

A/N: Thanks to my beta, Distracted, who originally advised me against posting this ending, but then supported my choice. It's the story I needed to tell. The whole chapter is more upbeat than the last. We also learn more about Lorian. OK, here goes . . . .

* * *

The young Triannon faced her rival alone in the darkened room. He'd called for the ritual of mutual correction and she'd come prepared.

"Docent Tiva, you spend more and more time with the Seekers, and less and less with your fellow Teachers? How do you explain your deviant behavior?"

"Docent Targon, it is written 'As the Spheres breath life to the Chosen Realm so Teachers should breathe life to Seekers.'"

"It is also written that a network of believers transforms the Chosen Realm. You have strayed from our network."

"I have not," she answered firmly. "I admit that the Seekers test my faith. They ask difficult questions, but finding the answers can only make me stronger."

"What answers have you found?"

"I believe the Spheres may be technological in nature. They work according to difficult physical principles. Just as our ancestors could not comprehend the warp engine, so today's engineers cannot comprehend the Spheres."

"It is impossible! It is HERESY! The Spheres were made in 8 days. Nothing so grand can be built in 8 days. Therefore they must be supernatural."

"Seekers from around the Realm report to me on a wide variety of Spheres. Some appear to be older than others."

Targon snorted his disgust. "Why do the Seekers instruct you? Are you not here to instruct them?"

"We are all here to seek the truth. I will do whatever it takes to find Paradise for myself and the others."

* * *

T'Pol waited outside her quarters in her workout clothes. Actually, she was wearing Trip's old t-shirt. Fashion was no longer a priority for the adults in the Expanse. Soon, Amanda joined her, wearing a rag that had once been a stretchy tank top. The children viewed the well-worn Earth and Vulcan clothing with disdain. Lorian often accused his mother of sentimentality. Logic would dictate that they throw these items into the recyclers.

"Where's Destiny?" T'Pol inquired, "I understood she'd be jogging with us."

"She went back to change. She realized she can't run in those ridiculous heavy Triannon earrings. She'll catch up in a minute. By the way, it was so nice of you to talk with her. She's convinced you believe her story. I didn't disabuse her of that notion."

They started jogging down the hall. "Have you made any progress in convincing her to repair the scar on her arm?" T'Pol inquired.

"If I push the issue, she'll resist. If I ignore it she may come around."

"Lorian believes peer pressure will induce a change shortly."

"Yes, especially now that she's become interested in boys. Anyway, how's _your_ love life?"

T'Pol checked to see if hallway was empty. "Are you referring to the arrangements I've made to cope with my next reproductive cycle? "

"I am referring to _Malcolm_! You're very lucky. He's a good man."

"Yes, he is. We have a bond of mutual respect."

"And . . ."

"What else do you need to know?"

"I was hoping for some juicy details. When did you two realize you were attracted to each other? Who said and did what? Who else knows?"

"Aside from Lorian, Phlox is the only one who knows . . . because the relationship is basically a medical matter."

"Oh come on. You're no fun. What happened to your 'multipurpose courtship?'"

"I should have shown more restraint. I was overly hopeful. I now wish to approach this matter more . . . dispassionately."

"You wish to approach Malcolm _dispassionately_?" Amanda asked incredulous, "Why? He's adorable! I wish Phlox would work out."

"Malcolm's appearance is irrelevant. A Vulcan mating bond is not dependent on appearances."

"T'Pol, if you don't particularly care for this man . . ."

They both got quiet as Destiny came up behind them. The girl waved and smiled as she raced on past.

". . . .there are others of us who would," Amanda finished.

"Meaning?"

"Phlox has two wives. I wouldn't mind having two husbands."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Malcolm and I spent a lot of time together over the past year dealing with the abduction. We became quite close. If you hadn't made a move first . . ."

T'Pol suppressed an irrational flash of anger. It was wrong to condemn Amanda for wanting two husbands, when she, herself, was still defending two mates.

* * *

T'Pol sipped on chamomile tea and studied her padd. Transdimensional physics had become a guilty addiction. The math seemed unsolvable, but she couldn't put it down.

Was the alternative timeline stable? How did it propagate? Could it be accessed? All she could be sure of was that the anomaly served as the nexus between two worlds. Apparently, the first anomaly had caused a branching of spacetime. But what happened when a branch of spacetime encountered a second anomaly—did two versions of spacetime branch again? . . . reconnect? braid?

It was too complicated to be grasped intuitively, and even the computer seemed to balk at considering it. The laws of physics broke down near the anomalies, and consequently, so did the computer. She kept getting error messages. The tea tasted stale. She felt stale. She stood up to stretch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Malcolm rounding the bulkhead, coming towards her work space. She was pleased with his attentiveness. Despite her recent coolness towards him, he continued to check in regularly, informing her of his work and inquiring as to her welfare. Reflexively, she minimized her calculations, leaving a blank screen. Her reaction was illogical. None of her collegues could have read the math, let alone her intentions in pursuing it.

"I heard the bad news," Malcolm began. "I guess there's no way to tease useful information out of last year's scans."

"I'm afraid not."

"If not this sphere, then possibly the next one," he said with a sigh. "We _do_ have a hundred years to figure this thing out."

"I was hoping this research could be my husband's legacy," T'Pol admitted.

"He's left a legacy in other ways. He maintained the ship. He was a dear friend to many of us."

She accepted his kind words with a nod. "How is the video review progressing? Did you determine the nature of the shadow we saw in the first images?"

"I can't be entirely sure, but it seems to an artifact of the sensors. A build-up of static on the imaging array."

"Did you find anything else of interest?"

"Yes, but not what we had hoped for." He hesitated. "That's why I came by, T'Pol. I'm having second thoughts about this experiment—I am advising we discontinue."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing of scientific interest. However, we're halfway through our review and we've already captured video of three couples who sneaked into that cargo bay for some privacy—'to make out.'"

She returned a blank expression

"You know, kissing, hugging, and whatnot."

"I can define the term. I do NOT see how these findings are relevant to our concerns."

"Among the lovebirds was your son and Paris Mayweather."

T'Pol thoughts scattered. She knit her brow. _This is twenty years too soon for Lorian to mature . . . He is half-human . . . Trip warned me this might happen._

"I took the liberty of reviewing the video," Malcolm continued. "It's pretty tame. Nevertheless, its probably time someone had a talk with that boy—you know . . . about adult responsibility."

_Human men are like boys. Human boys are like men,_ T'Pol thought. She looked up at Malcolm and belatedly processed his last sentence. "Phlox can explain the sexual practices of multiple species . . ," she began.

"How about a human? And, please don't pick me."

Mentally, she ran through a list of her male friends. The list was quite short.

"T'Pol?" Malcolm said gently, interrupting her thoughts. "This experiment has me thinking . . . even if it were possible to contact 'Alternative Trip,' perhaps we should just let him have his privacy. I know you're hoping for a love letter from another dimension—but that's not realistic. Did you ever consider that Trip may have settled down by now with a nice Triannon woman? It's been over a year."

She considered the suggestion, suppressing a jumble of contradictory emotions. The effort showed on her face as deep concern.

Malcolm's tilted his head, thinking his own thoughts, like Hoshi concentrating to pick out a weak signal. He gave a short laugh. "Personally, I see Trip gravitating toward the smartest woman on that Triannon ship, telling her she's being oppressed by her crazy religion, and trying to enlighten her with some transdimensional warp theory."

Malcolm glanced at his friend to see if she was offended. At first she wasn't sure herself.

"I know it sounds like heresy, but look at us. Would you really want the ghost of Trip peering over our shoulder when it's time? Maybe it's better not to know."

She wondered if she _should_ be offended, but it was impossible to be angry with this man when he evidently shared in her loss.

T'Pol struggled to consider his advice dispassionately. There remained a possibility, however remote, that she still might be able to contact her husband. But the problem of retrieving him was resisting solution. T'Pol imagined her spouse resigned to his fate and then receiving a message of hope. She understood the damage it might do—it was a straightforward extrapolation from experience.

The Vulcan finally spoke. "I concur with your judgment that it would be unethical to continue this experiment."

Malcolm took her hand, gave it a squeeze, and left.

T'Pol felt both pain and relief. Trip was really gone. Further mental exertions on his behalf were pointless.

*Trip, I wish you well wherever you are,* she sent into the void. She listened to the silence in reply. Memories welled up within her bringing both sadness and joy. She closed her eyes and slipped into a trance, right there at her work station. She sifted through the hopes and regrets, applying logic to each, till, at length, she arrived at an emotion for which Vulcans do not apologize: she indulged in a profound sense of peace.

* * *

Lorian tried to remain calm. Glenn, Carlos, and Paris and he had been brought to the conference room with their parents. The captain paced before them as he delivered a furious lecture.

". . . from now on you will refer to your superiors by rank and or with "Sir" or "Ma'am" . . . ! You will be subject to the discipline of your superiors on this ship!" Archer paused between sentences to look each of the teenagers straight in the eye.

Lorian's friends stared back in amazement. Until now, they had been shielded from the captain's fiery lectures.

"I don't have to remind you what's at stake. . . . Seven million lives, maybe more, depend on how we conduct ourselves each day on this ship!"

Paris glanced to her peers, who signaled her to just look forward.

"You are the first of a next generation of young men and women who will carry our mission forward. Welcome aboard, Recruits. I know you will make us proud as you join your fellow crewmates in this crucial enterprise." He paused to looked them over. "Does anyone have any questions?"

"Why isn't Destiny with us?" Lorian asked.

"Rephrase the question, Recruit!" Jon barked, "You are speaking to a superior officer."

"Why isn't Destiny with us . . . Cap'n?" Lorian asked tentatively.

Jon's hard edges seemed to melt. He began in a softer tone. "She's a little behind in her studies, Lorian. I was hoping _you_ could help her catch up and get on board with the rest of her class."

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant! What's on the duty roster?"

Malcolm stepped forward. "The recruits are scheduled to help Beta shift unload the trellium shipment."

The young men and women smiled to each other. Lorian shared in their excitement. Moving crates sounded a lot more fun than school work.

"Captain." T'Pol spoke in a firm, yet deferential tone. "Lorian, is allergic to Trellium. Perhaps you would reassign him, . . . Sir."

The other kids snickered as Lorian shot his mother a startled look. Why would she embarrass him like this? The trellium was sealed in containers after all. But he didn't dare challenge her in front of the Captain. He might have to call her "Commander."

"Ah, I see. . ." Malcolm was clearly making this up as he went along. "Perhaps, Lorian could assist me in the Armory."

Lorian felt a measure of relief. Perhaps this _special_ assignment would redeem him in the eyes of his friends.

* * *

Lorian stumbled through the door of the Tucker quarters looking dazed. The color had washed from his face. He threw himself on a chair and put his head in his hands. For a moment T'Pol worried he _had_ been poisoned by the trellium shipment.

T'Pol watched her son with concern, until he looked up. "Mom! You set me up!" he accused.

Everything was fine, he was just mad at her.

"Perhaps I should have anticipated that Malcolm would assign inexperienced recruits to moving cargo," she began in a reasonable tone, "and I should have remembered that the cargo was Trellium. But I most certainly did not 'set you up.'"

"Mom! You told Malcolm I wanted to talk about . . . _human_ _sexuality?!"_

"I told Malcolm you _needed_ to talk about human sexuality," she corrected.

"But WHY!"

T'Pol made a note to thank her friend later. He had been very reluctant to accept this assignment. "I trusted Malcolm, and it was a necessary precaution—you are half human."

"I don't need a talk, Mom. I've seen the movies!"

"Real life isn't like movies."

Lorian put his head back in his hands and muttered something unintelligible.

"I can't hear you when you mumble."

"That's because I wasn't talking to you," he answered sharply.

"You said something about Paris and the movies," T'Pol prompted.

"Yeah, she seems to think were living on the _Titanic_ or something," Lorian mumbled into his lap.

"The _Titanic_ was a twentieth-century Earth ship, an ocean liner."

"Yes."

"Paris thinks our ship is doomed?"

"NO, MOM!" He looked up furious with her. "The _Titanic_ is the title of a movie. Forget it. You haven't seen it."

"So what did you talk about with Malcolm?"

"It's private."

"I understand. Just be aware you can converse with me on any topic. Vulcans do not feel embarrassment."

Lorian rolled his eyes and grabbed his video game. Soon he was punching buttons in silence. T'Pol stepped into the bathroom to shower.

Fifteen minutes later she came out refreshed. Lorian was still playing his game. He didn't look up.

"Mom?" His angry tone had disappeared, "He said I'd feel this way about hundreds of girls."

_He must mean Malcolm._ "Hundreds?" T'Pol responded coolly, "that seems unlikely."

"Yeah, especially when there are only four girls on this ship my age." Her son put down his game and looked at her with a serious expression. "Mom? . . . I don't think he's like Dad."

"Could you elaborate?"

"Well Dad loved only you, right?"

"He loved _mainly_ me. I could read his thoughts. Sometimes he would think about someone else, but he was loyal to me. You can control your actions, despite your emotions. This is important. The four girls you refer to will be probably be your crewmates for the next sixty years. You have to be logical and think of consequences."

Lorian scowled at the lecture, "That's what Malcolm said."

"Lorian, I feel you disapprove of Malcolm."

"No, I don't."

"You can speak freely. I am a Vulcan. I will not be offended by your honest opinion."

"Well . . . he's fine. I like him. But . . ."

"You can tell me."

"I don't get what you see in him," Lorian admitted. "Compared to Dad, his face is so wrinkled. Not that it matters . . . You old people should do what you want."

"Perhaps you think I am betraying your father's memory," She suggested. "Sometimes you seem angry."

"It's like Cap'n Archer was saying . . .'bout the mission. Dad died for the mission. Sometimes I feel like the others have forgotten it . . . . even you." He waited for a response.

"Lorian, you and I are only two on this ship who may still be alive to face the Xindi in ninety-nine years. We have a special responsibility to keep each other focused on that mission. Your father would have been proud to see you today—carrying on the work he wanted to do."

She placed a hand on his arm, demanding her son's attention. He looked up and she let him go.

T'Pol crossed the room to her clothes locker. Lorian stood and followed her. "Mother, what do you think happened to Dad? The other one."

"I have been studying the equations. As you know, the math breaks down near an anomaly."

"Denominators go to zero and the system becomes meaningless."

"Or open to interpretation," she said provocatively.

"So . . ."

"So we will never know for sure. However, the secondary timelines appear to be unstable. I believe that another encounter with an anomaly would have caused its collapse."

"That seems plausible," Lorian admitted.

He turned and sat back down at his desk. He picked up his game only to toss it aside.

* * *

It was late when T'Pol headed to Malcolm's quarters. No one was in the hall, when she knocked on his door. He greeted her in his t-shirt and shorts.

"I wanted to thank you for speaking with Lorian."

"Certainly."

"I suppose it wasn't easy for you."

He cocked his head to one side in agreement.

"I wanted to thank you for that favor. . . and also to ask if I might sleep with you tonight."

"You mean you want to _sleep?"_

"Actually, I was speaking euphemistically."

He stared in surprise.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Please."

He stepped back to invite her in. As soon as she had cleared the doorway she was on him. She grabbed his head and drew him into a kiss. A gift meant only for him.

* * *

Two days later:

T'Pol awoke in a sweat. It was the middle of the night and Malcolm was lying beside her snoring softly. Her dreams had turned erotic. It was distressing. She wanted to climb all over her partner. She was losing control.

"Malcolm, Malcolm." She shook him awake. "I think it's starting," she cried in fear.

"Don't be alarmed!" he shouted, sounding alarmed. "I'll contact Phlox."

"NO!" She insisted, nearly in tears, "The pon farr is a natural process. I don't need to be hospitalized!"

"Settle down. I just mean Phlox can look out for Lorian. Of, course, we'll be _here_, in my quarters."

"I feel more comfortable here."

"I'm pleased you do."

"Soon I'll need to let go . . . of my control."

"Whenever you're ready . . . just let go. You trust me, don't you?"

Her desire hit her like a wave. Now she rode that wave.

* * *

A long time later, T'Pol awoke naked, drenched in sweat. Malcolm was lying beside her in his undershorts. He was leaning over her, wiping her forehead with a cool rag. He was smiling that little smile of his. She was exhausted, every muscle ached, her warm skin tingled all over, exposed to the cooler air. She felt . . . wonderful.

"My precious little elf," Malcolm was saying.

Her eyes finally focused and she bathed in his adoring gaze.

Finally she found her voice. "That nickname is unacceptable," she informed him.

He snorted softly. "I suppose that's a good sign. It means the pon farr has almost run its course. And not a moment too soon."

"You are dressed," she noted, referring to his shorts.

"I'm a fifty-one years-old and human. I can't quite keep up. And I think you might have bent something."

"I'm sorry. Are you going to be all right?" she asked with concern.

"All I can say is, next time—and I may need a week to recover—I'd like to try something a little less insane . . ." He flopped down on his back, beside her and closed his eyes. He was still smiling.

She snuggled against him as the flush of passion wore off. She clung to his arm and rested her head against his shoulder. She had survived the pon farr. She fell asleep without a care in the world.

* * *

Malcolm walked into the gym in his sweat suit and began punching the air. Soon he was bouncing on two feet, warming up for sparing. Lorian and Paris were playing basketball with Carlos and Asatoshi, with Destiny serving as the ref. He'd have to wait till they were done to roll out the mats.

They didn't seem to be serious about the game. Paris was guarding the ball with Carlos on her back. Carlos reached around the girl with both arms to trap the ball. He held her in a hug and she only laughed when he wrenched the ball from her hands and pulled it up over her head.

"Foul!" Destiny shouted, "REACHING!"

Paris ignored the call in her favor. She D'd up on Carlos, in an extra-legal scramble for the ball. Now they were both laughing, lost in their own one-on-one game.

"Come on guys, cut it out. Destiny's the ref," Asatoshi pleaded ineffectually. He shot the pair an angry look and walked over to Destiny to confer about the situation.

Lorian sighed and wandered to the bench to sit while the kids worked things out. Malcolm came over.

"Lieutenant," Lorian said, looking up.

"At ease, Recruit." Malcolm sat himself beside the boy. They watched the pair blatantly flirting on the court. "Sorry about your girlfriend," Malcolm offered. "Just know there are other fish in the sea."

"What's that mean?"

"It means there are other girls out there . . . somewhere."

"Not for me," Lorian growled.

"I thought you weren't all that interested in this girl?"

"I wasn't," Lorian answered. "That's the problem."

Malcolm eyed him curiously.

"I suspect I'm . . . . more Vulcan than human," the boy clarified.

"When it comes to girls?"

Lorian nodded.

"Ah, I see . . . so, what you're telling me is that you're a perfectly normal Vulcan in this respect."

"I guess . . . and a pretty strange human."

"Well, your mother will be relieved to hear that."

"Don't tell her!" Lorian demanded.

"You'd rather she worry?"

"Yes," Lorian answered, with a sly smile. The youth stood up and sauntered back onto the court to join the game. He grabbed the ball off Carlos and tossed it to his teammate Paris. "Play!" he ordered. Paris passed the ball back to Lorian, who of course was totally open. Lorian pounded the ball twice against the floor and shot. Belatedly, Carlos was on him, but the ball was arcing in. It was all net.

* * *

Early in the morning, Malcolm headed to his girlfriend's quarters.

_Was it right to call her a "girlfriend"?_ In light of her age and regal demeanor, probably not. Maybe he should choose a Vulcan term? "Bondmate" wasn't right. Despite his help with her pon farr, no mating bond had formed. T'Pol no longer frightened him with talk of marriage, _though it might still necessary if that bond were to develop_ . . . If he wanted to play it safe, he'd have to see her less often . . . But he couldn't stay away.

T'Pol answered the door chime. She was pleased to see that it was Malcolm. He stood there smiling at her. She loved the way his eyes turned down and crinkled at the corners. _Not that it ought to matter_, she reminded herself. Whatever was happening between them, it wasn't very Vulcan. From a Vulcan point of view, their continued encounters were completely redundant.

"I have good news," he announced. "Jon wants to send Lorian and Paris on their first away mission—a supply run."

"A space station?"

"A Minshara-class planet. Jon anticipated that you might have concerns. That's why he'd like you and Travis to lead this mission. So you can oversee your kids."

"I suppose it _is_ good news."

* * *

Lorian couldn't believe he was actually on his first away mission. It had been a day of firsts. Ensign Mayweather had let his daughter, Paris, control the shuttle for several minutes out in open space, at a safe distance from _Enterprise._ Lorian was to have a turn when they returned from the surface.

Lorian felt like Neil Armstrong, as he stepped from the shuttle onto the planet. _One small step for man . . ._

He did his best to act cool while being hit with some totally new sensations. The natural gravity was similar to the grav setting at home, but the ambient temperature was way above normal. He squinted, but still his eyes teared up from the glaring light. His mother had warned him not to look towards this star. Its radiation warned his face like a open flame while a cooling breeze flowed past, bringing with it a jumble of smells—flowers? minerals? things rotting? He heard squeaks and squawks from unknown fauna. Beneath all these sounds, a constant muffled roar—it sounded like the planet had a complaining warp engine.

"The market is one thousand one hundred meters north of this location," Travis announced.

As they hiked off toward the market, the crowds got thicker. The market appeared to be a gathering point for many species. Lorian tried not to gawk at the startling variety of humanoid forms.

"If my translator is working correctly, these prices are unacceptably high," T'Pol stated. "I am certain we could do better elsewhere."

"It's a tourist trap!" Travis answered happily.

His demeanor led her to believe they were in no immediate danger. Nevertheless, she quickly surveyed their surroundings, checking for a threat.

He realized her misunderstanding. "No," Travis explained, "I mean the tourists have no choice but to shop here. They come for the ocean view, not wholesale food. So the prices are high."

"Then why are _we_ here?"

"We're tourists!" Travis smiled his widest smile and spread his hands. "The Captain wanted it to be a surprise. It's an all expense-paid vacation. We're staying five days."

"Where?"

"Over there." Travis pointed to a building that looked to Lorian like a palace, with domes and towers and spires. It was all too good to be true.

"I bought a suite for my family," Travis explained. "And the captain purchased a suite for you and Lorian. Nice soft beds, warm mud baths, and interactive holographic game stations. It's all part of the package! Not that any of us are gonna have time for video games. Me? I'll be SURFING every spare minute! Other crew members will be coming down soon."

"Who else is coming?"

"Whoever can afford it. It's expensive to stay on the surface, but everyone will at least get to come down for a day to check out the beach."

"So we're not really on a supply run?" Lorian asked. He was simply astonished.

"The only shopping I'm doing is for a bathing suit," Travis exclaimed. "Lorian, you'll need a suit too. You're going in the water, right?"

"Yeah . . ." Lorian answered tentatively. He would try to swim, but was just a little anxious about what form of dress or undress would be required. He remembered embarrassing photos his dad had taped to the wall showing friends and family lounging on a Florida beach in what looked to be their underwear.

"Don't worry. I'll teach you to body surf," Travis encouraged the worried-looking teen. T'Pol gave Travis the eyebrow.

"It'll be perfectly safe!" He assured her.

"You three shop," She told them. "I have to thank the Captain."

T'Pol stepped into a relatively quiet corner of a stall in the busy open-air market. She activated her communicator.

"Captain?" She asked.

"SURPRISE!" The familiar voice sounded.

"Jon, this is all very generous. Why did you do it?"

"It's what Trip would have wanted. When he borrowed the money from me, he was planning to take you both on a vacation. This is as close as I could come to Florida."

"It is a thoughtful gift."

"I thought . . . since you didn't find what you were looking for . . ."

"In the other dimensions . . ?"

"Yes. Well, it's just a consolation prize."

"It feels like a message . . . from Trip."

The communicator fell silent for an uncomfortable duration, before exploding back to life. "Well, I'm glad," Jon blustered. "Besides, I thought Lorian needed to see a Minshara-class planet, with an ocean. It may inspire him. Help him better understand our mission."

"Your strategy is quite logical," T'Pol assured him. "Captain, I am reluctant to ask you for an additional favor, but could you ask Lieutenant Reed to accompany me on this vacation?"

"He's scheduled for duty," Jon answered hurredly.

"But you could reschedule him," T'Pol responded.

"I hope he has his credits. I can't afford a second room."

"I am confident that the accommodations you arranged for me and Lorian will be more than adequate."

"T'Pol . .?"

She heard the disappointment in the captain's voice. "You are aware that Malcolm and I have begun a relationship. . ."

"I didn't realize it was this serious." Jon sounded deflated. There was a pause and T'Pol imagined him shaking his head. The voice returned, "I'm sorry. I just don't see it working between the two of you."

"Jon, you said the same thing about me and Trip."

"I did . . . didn't I?" the captain sighed. "All right, then," he said. The exuberant tone had returned. " You know best! You two—you three—enjoy your vacation."

"I will, Captain . . . Thank you for everything."

* * *

The Triannon senior officers were gathered on the bridge to bless the mission to the surface. They had commissioned Targon, a talented pilot and missionary, to take the shuttle to Scartrol to locate new Seekers. "Bridge to Docent Targon: May you spread Good News where none have heard it."

"A network of believers transforms the Chosen Realm," came the reply from the shuttle.

"All praise to the Makers," The helmsman answered, as the vessel undocked. Jets fired and the shuttle slid down towards the planet.

"Docent Targon," the helmsman called a moment later. "Your trajectory is off. Please check your heading."

"It is impossible!" came the reply from the receding vessel. The shuttle pilot actually sounded offended.

"Targon, you will need to orbit the planet before you set down," the helmsman insisted.

"How LITTLE you understand!" the shuttle pilot shot back. The bridge crew exchanged startled looks.

"Targon, ADJUST YOUR HEADING!" the Triannon captain snapped.

There was silence over the com. Finally a weak signal. " A network of believers transforms the SZZZTTTSZZZZTZSST."

"There's too much static. The shuttle has already entered the atmosphere!" The helmsman announced in alarm. "He won't make it to the landing site . . ."

"Where is he going?" the captain asked his helmsman.

"It looks like he's heading into the ocean."

"Either he's mentally ill or he's disobeying orders," an officer suggested.

The captain blinked in confusion, "But Docent Targon has never strayed from the path."

"Well, he has now," The helmsman informed them as the vessel dropped off his sensors.

* * *

Destiny clung to her seat while Trip piloted the shuttle in a dive through the atmosphere. Friction heated the skin of the shuttle till it glowed.

Tiva's finger pressed a button on the com board, rebroadcasting her recording: "A NETWORK OF BELIEVERS TRANSFORMS THE CHOSEN REALM" the com board blared for the fifth time. No one would be able to hear it anymore. Friction with the atmosphere made further transmissions impossible.

"I think it worked!" Teacher Tiva announced with pride, finally releasing the button.

"Couldn't you get the guy to say something a little less . . . religious?"

"You've obviously never tried talking to Targon."

They broke through the clouds and Trip saw a beautiful steel-blue ocean. The waves reflected light so the water twinkled, undulating in a mesmerizing rhythm. Nearest the shore, parallel lines of white crawled across the water toward the land.

"Destiny, LOOK at this!" Trip called. She stared ahead through the window in awe.

"The shoreline is crowded. It will be hard to find a landing site," Tiva worried aloud. "Why did you pick this target?"

"It's as close as I could come to Florida."

* * *

T'Pol sat on the beach watching her son wade in the water with Paris and Travis. Her Vulcan son was not even bothering to hide his emotions as the waves broke around him. He was shouting to Paris over the roar of the ocean. They both shrieked as Travis sailed past them on a wave board, lost his balance, and plunged sideways into the water.

Behind her, she heard a familiar voice. She glanced up, and there was Malcolm. He was actively chatting with a pretty female, presumably a local. They were using hand signals. It seems no one had brought translation equipment to the beach. T'Pol didn't need a U.T. to know that the woman was flirting with her friend

Now Malcolm ran towards T'Pol, looking relieved to find her.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"I was explaining to that woman that I'm with you," he replied, looking innocent.

T'Pol's severe expression melted into a softer one. "It is difficult for me to accept that you've had so many 'girlfriends'," she confessed.

"You think it's any easier for me? You've got my best friend's name tattooed on your bum."

They shared a candid look, and she silently acknowledged his point.

"By the way," Malcolm continued, "thanks for convincing the captain to switch my schedule."

"He disapproves of our mutual attraction," she noted.

"I know," Malcolm flashed a wicked smile. "That makes it all the more fun. . . So, would you like to take a walk?"

"Soon. I'd prefer to meditate first. The noise from the waves is relaxing."

"In that case, I'll see you when you're done." He jumped up and ran to follow Travis, Paris, and Lorian, still wading in the water.

T'Pol folded her legs, closed her eyes, and her mind receded inward. The happy commotion surrounding her dampened in intensity and finally became a distance thrum. She reviewed her emotions—gratitude, longing, pride, fulfillment, excitement. She identified and experienced each one, before returning them to her proper place, beneath the surface. Thus, she removed their power to bias her behavior. Just as she was achieving the proper level of emotional control, she was started by a voice—a man's voice, with just a hint of a Southern accent.

"I'm glad we're here."

The voice was real and alive. Instinctively, she reached out with her mind to connect with Trip. She'd explain herself—say goodbye. But Trip's mind didn't catch hers . . . she was floating, falling. Abruptly, she awoke to her surroundings. She opened her eyes, and Lorian was standing over her, dripping. Sand blew from his body and into her face.

"Mom, ya all right?" he asked.

"Of course," she answered.

"I'm so glad we came!" he repeated.

"So am I. It was your father's idea and Jon used his own the credits to make it happen. Remember to thank Captain Archer."

Lorian ran back to the others and she observed them while they played. She watched the waves crash and the nearest star set fiery red over an ocean the color of a steel-blue uniform. One by one the stars returned, twinkling in a way she'd almost forgotten. Accepting the gift of the days ahead, she gathered her family and headed back across the sand.

* * *

*

*

Meanwhile, in a parallel branch of the timeline:

*

*

*

Hoshi and the crew waited on the bridge. They'd arrived early for the rendezvous with the Forgellian freighter. Soon they'd transfer the trellium shipment and take on fresh fruit.

Hoshi searched the wavelengths for a signal from the approaching freighter. Suddenly her look of consternation turned to surprise. "Yes, I read you . . . I READ YOU. YES! . . . Absolutely! . . . . We're 6 light years away!"

She looked up, beaming.

_Could it be?_ T'Pol was reluctant to hope.

"IT"S TRIP!" Hoshis announced, ecstatically, "DESTINY's with him!" She was almost bouncing from her chair. "They want a shuttle to bring them home!"

The bridge erupted in celebration.

T'Pol ran to the com station for confirmation, but Hoshi was now paging sickbay to spread the good news.

The distant message now played live cross the bridge: "Hello? SSZZZ ZSSSTTT. _Enterprise?_ Have we lost the signal?" It was Trip, himself.

"How are you?" The captain shouted back, smiling from ear to ear.

"Homesick, hungry. Besides that, no worse for the wear."

"What about Destiny?"

"In perfect condition. Better than ever. I kept her out of trouble."

"I kept myself out of trouble," Destiny added playfully.

"She's a good girl," Trip agreed. You could hear the grin in his voice

"Welcome home both of you!" The captain exclaimed, "I'm sending Travis with T'Pol."

"Um . . . I can't wait to see T'Pol—I love you honey, but, ah—we've got a small situation down here. Right now, I need Malcolm. I'll explain as soon as I get home."

"You need security?"

"Nah, everything's fine. Don't worry."

"OK then, hold on, the team will be there soon." In the background they heard a woman crying, and then they lost the connection.

_fin_

* * *

I hope you stay tuned for the sequel, "Reunion," where we learn what happens in the alternative timeline.


End file.
